


Reanimated

by tigbit



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 81,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigbit/pseuds/tigbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jared manages real estate in Heaven and Jensen works as Hell’s attorney in Death Trials. Extreme ambiguity and a distinct lack of beer push Jared to accept a different kind of job in a hotter, more southern locale. The boys meet. Hi-jinks and grocery-stealing in Hell ensue. Featuring saints on book tours, love on trial, after-life bureaucracy, and sin. Surprisingly not as cracktastic as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reanimated

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the J2/Supernatural Big Bang challenge over on LJ.

\--

Prologue:

\--

It’s embarrassing, really, the way Jared dies.

To be honest, he never really gave dying much thought Before. He had no reason to. He was young. Fiendishly attractive. Fit and, barring the inevitable bad days, cheerful to a radiant degree. Aside from the typical broken bones of childhood (falling out of trees and whatnot) and that wild night with Craig during Freshman Orientation (rashes in inappropriate places and whatnot), he’s managed to avoid the general tomfoolery of hospitals and the people within.

In any case, Jared’s fairly confident he’s never done anything to merit dying prematurely. Death is not a particularly picky mistress, but still. Karma and all that. He might have committed a few evil deeds, but he never intended any lasting harm. For the record, he didn’t know that Susan from kindergarten wasn’t lying about wearing a wig just like he never thought his first date was actually allergic to shellfish.

He still stays away from clams in sympathy.

His last day is a nice day—a little hot, maybe, but paintbrush swipes of cloud smooth over the horizon and flags and hanging signposts flutter in a cooler breeze. Jared opens his window and lets his free hand catch at the air currents as he drives, humming something embarrassing that he’d heard on the radio. All things considered, he’s in an okay place with the world: his agent called that afternoon with promising news about his latest audition and Jared had celebrated with food. Some new taco joint downtown had been having a special and he’s felt full all afternoon. Tingly, even.

Nothing can ruin this day. Not even the blink of a particular name on his cell phone. Jared picks it up, happy enough not to sigh.

“Hel—”

“Let me bitch at you.”

“—lo, Chad.” Jared passes a Smart Car and briefly entertains the idea of running it over. He wonders if he’d pop a tire. “You sound chipper. Things must be going well.”

“Are you driving? I can hear you driving. Pull over. Turn around. Meet me at the beach.”

“I’m doing fine, thanks. A little hot, I guess, but I’ll live. The A/C still hasn’t been working right. I don’t know, I think I read the instructions wrong on the packet. The print was awfully small. I’d be more worried but it’s not like, smoking or anything. I’m in no immediate danger. No cause for concern.”

A pause.

“Quit dicking around. Listen up.”

Jared sighs.

Unsurprisingly, Chad barks out that he wants to bitch about Sophia’s recent success and promises Jared an ice cream for his time if they meet up. Jared pretends to complain about traffic while secretly debating the merits of chocolate mint versus mango.

The parking lot is nearly full when he arrives, but Jared manages to squeeze his bastard truck between another fucking Smart Car and some other kind of pansy-ass vehicle with a minimum of fuss and a celebratory fist-pump. He’d wait in his truck, but he’s tired of Chad making fun of his CD collection, so Jared hangs out in the shade of a palm tree.

It’s nice, noticeably cooler by the ocean. A handful of giggling, blushing teenagers—three girls and two boys, actually—work up enough courage to ask for a picture. He’s flattered, but mostly kind of shocked. He smiles for the camera and tries to remember the last time he’s had a steady job.

“Where do you, uh.” He turns to the tallest one, a redheaded girl with watery eyes, after the click. “Can I ask what you’ve seen me in?”

“I’d recognize you anywhere, Officer Miller,” she breathes, and Jared cocks his head a little because, who? The girl shuffles around in her blue flats, blushing a bit when she leans in closer to whisper. “Even without your nightstick.”

Jared blinks, thinking furiously. And then, oh. Oh. “Jesus christ!” he blurts, “You saw that?”

She nods, momentarily distracted when someone hands her the camera. Jared has the sudden, desperate urge to rip it away, maybe hurl it into the water with the sharks so he can forget this ever happened. Again.

Officer Miller. Fuck.

“You’re like, fifteen!”

“Seventeen,” she corrects happily, not the slightest bit fazed. She smiles at him, teeth white in the sunshine, before pocketing her camera. Her friends have already moved on and she turns to leave, waving back at him. “Thanks for the picture! I really hope you get back in the business.”

Jared has to bite his lip, but he manages not to say anything else. He struggles with a strained smile and waves back, immediately hiding his face in sweaty hands when they hop in a car.

And to think he’d nearly managed to forget. Two hours with shitty lighting for a couple hundred bucks and he didn’t think anyone would actually watch it, for christsake. He blames it on his stomach. His hungry, hungry stomach and his sad little bank account and alcohol. Fucking alcohol and its twisted little ways.

He shakes it off, buries the memory deep.

Chad arrives five minutes later, chattering on his cell phone, and hands Jared a ten before he can think to complain. Shifting his hand to cover the mouth piece, Chad says hello by means of actually saying _you are a food whore and easily bought_ and goes back to talking while Jared sniffs out something cold and delicious.

So Chad bitches as they walk and Jared inhales most of his ice cream on a breath and half-heartedly attempts to make understanding friend-noises through his nose even though The Epic Story of Chad and Sophia ended forever ago. Jared actually feels quite happy for Sophia and her new contract with whatever company, but he’s a decent friend and keeps quiet as he shuffles along in the sand.

Repressed sexual memories aside, it’s a normal day. A peaceful day.

He lets his mind wander. Chad’s still wildly gesticulating, going on about something to do with the price of hair gel and Sophia’s continued lack of compassion and Jared tries not to duck when a flock of birds swoop overhead. He sticks the rest of his cone in his mouth protectively and narrows his eyes as they settle near a picnic table. Jared hates picnic tables. They hurt his knees and he has a bad, dark memory about splinters and thrusting that he pushes away as quickly as possible.

He’s busy wondering if plastic tables would be worth another go-around when a fist-sized shock of pain hits him in the shoulder. It reverberates a little, like the thrum of a church bell.

“Dude!” With the combined powers of a setting sun and annoyance, Jared notes that Chad’s squinting even more than usual. He can barely see his eyeballs. “Are you even paying attention?”

“Yeah, man. Sorry.” Jared tongues away the sticky remnants of the cone in his mouth and tries to look more alert.

Chad slows down, unconvinced. “So you really didn’t hear about that?”

“Er.” Jared debates lying before giving up. “Hear about what?”

“How far, exactly, is your head up your ass? I can’t believe you. It’s been all over the news, man. Radio. Internet. TV.”

Whatever he’s talking about, it irks Jared that Chad is suddenly waving the informed card. Just last week, Jared had finally broken down and admitted that the Gaza Strip wasn’t a mall in Texas, much to Chad’s disappointment. He’d bet good money that Chad has never touched a map, much less given thought to world geography. Although apparently, Chad has figured out how to access local news.

Now, however, is not the time to argue. It is never the time to argue with Chad, as he will undoubtedly piss upon the rules of logical debate. Jared sighs and gives in.

“What are you talking about?”

“The like, extreme food poisoning?” Chad supplies, voice still sustaining a measure of disbelief.

Clueless, Jared shrugs his shoulder. He hasn’t heard a thing about it, but he rubs his stomach at the thought.

“No one can figure out what it is, exactly,” Chad goes on. “Weird symptoms, all different. People have died, dude. Just like that. It’s like the new silent but deadly killer. Only, you know, with poison instead of farting. And actual death at the end.”

Jared rolls his eyes. Only Chad would choose to compare mass, public food poisoning with flatulence.

“That sucks,” Jared says, instead of wondering why Chad thinks the way he does, and he means it. What a horrible way to go: betrayed by food.

They walk a bit farther. Jared kicks at an empty Coke bottle and revels in the silence while it lasts. Chad will speak up sooner or later, but for now Jared’s happy enough to smell the ocean air and let the broken pieces of conversation from families and couples wash over his ears. He loses himself in the fading sunshine and struggles not to think about how gross he’s starting to feel. Maybe the ice cream was a bad idea.

He rubs at his stomach, frowning.

Chad, apparently, is not ready to let their former conversation piece die. Picking at a loose thread on his jeans, he speaks up. “I’m just surprised you don’t care more about the whole thing, man. You inhale more food than air. That’s all.”

Jared keeps quiet. He really doesn’t want to think about food, right now.

Shrugging at Jared’s silence, Chad twists around to ogle a runner chick’s ass and bumps into Jared’s shoulder at the same time. The small touch sets off a painful set of sparks that zoom down Jared’s arm to tickle the tips of his nails and he can’t help the little squeak that escapes.

“Ow,” Jared bites out. He scrunches his face, wondering what the hell he could have done to his arm between rolling out of bed and meeting up with Chad that he hadn’t noticed until now. Jared tries to rub it away, but the pain lingers longer than it should.

Chad stops. He inspects Jared in the same confused way Jared imagines he would look at a monkey fucking a duck. “Dude, are you sweating?”

Jared automatically opens his mouth to tell him off, but something is tickling his forehead. Irritated, Jared lifts up his hand to wipe it away. His fingers come back soaked — salty and damp enough that he has to palm away the wetness on his shirt.

“Huh.” That’s odd. Jared’s fairly sure he’s gone running in hotter weather without breaking a sweat so soon. He and Chad have been keeping up a slow pace. There’s no reason why he should be sweating. Or feeling so sick, for that matter.

When a horrible thought rises to mind, Jared’s stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch. There’s no way that what he’s thinking could be true, but he still has to fight to press down the rising panic. Worry turns his voice tinny and high.

“What, uh. Did they say where it all started?”

Chad’s eyes jerk away from Jared’s hairline. “Where did what start?”

“The food poisoning! What the fuck else have we been talking about?” Jared very strongly resists the need to windmill his arms and settles for curling his toes into the leather of his sandals, instead.

Wisely, Chad chooses to ignore Jared’s drama. He narrows his eyes again, but pushes aside whatever annoyance he must feel and lets it morph into a resigned drawl.

“You know that new place downtown? Right next to Frankie’s? Been shut down for a few hours, now. Who would have thought?” Chad sucks in a breath, puffs it out hard. “Tacos, man. Fuckin’ tacos.”

 _Oh dear_ , Jared thinks faintly. He opens and closes his mouth enough times to feel like a fish, but the words won’t come.

“I know, right?” Chad shakes his head.

There’s a strange clotting sensation building near Jared’s heart. He palms it through his shirt and absently wonders if he should sit down. Jared would rather not fall, seeing as how his head is a decent distance from his feet. If he really is dying from a fucking poisoned taco, Jared absolutely refuses to spend his last few minutes on Earth in an undignified sprawl on the ground. He makes a grab for Chad’s shirt and misses, staggers.

“Jared? Hey, what—what are you doing? You don’t actually look so good.”

If Jared wasn’t too busy dying, he’d kill Chad. Vigorously. And with great pleasure.

As it is, he still has enough presence of mind to stumble over to the nearest bench. Bits of red, splotchy paint peel away when Jared slides his ass across the wood and some distant, slightly insane part of his brain wonders if he’s ruined his pants. Now that it’s started, everything’s happening recklessly fast. _Fifteen minutes ago_ , he thinks wildly, _fifteen minutes ago I was getting out of my car. I nearly stubbed my toe. I thought Chad was wearing an ugly shirt. Fifteen minutes ago I was fine and now I’m dying._

It’s very hard to breathe.

Chad frantically palms and shouts at Jared’s face until he runs off, presumably to get help. Jared wishes Chad were more level-headed in dire situations and had whipped out his cell phone instead, because now he’s doomed to die alone. Strangers —blurs of colors, really— start poking and prodding at his body until Jared is flat on his back, legs hanging off the edge of the bench, feet rubbing in the sand.

In spite of it all, the sun sinks further into the watery horizon. Everything is bathed in a rich red, blurring off the edges of everything Jared can see. The world becomes soft.

His life does not flash before his eyes. Jared doesn’t even feel particularly weepy, to be honest. His chest feels like it’s caving in, heart floundering to pump in something thick and viscous. And despite the pain of it all, despite the chaos of the growing crowd, Jared feels strangely removed. Calm.

He thinks, detachedly, how he wishes he could say goodbye. He wonders what will happen to the deposit on his apartment, if Mr. Kripke will find the stain underneath the coffee table or notice the floorboard Jared cracked two weeks ago. He hopes the coffee-lady he liked finds her lost wedding ring, that the old man that sells newspapers on the corner will have better luck tomorrow. His eyes blink against a growing cloud of gray and Jared imagines he can smell mint. Maybe a bit of chocolate. Lime.

And then it’s gone, swallowed up simultaneously in the darkest shade of black and the brightest shade of white that Jared has ever known.

Fuckin’ tacos, indeed.

\--

 

There is a whistle, distant but sharp.

Slowly, Jared becomes aware of his body. Everything seems well enough—feet and hands and dick are all in their usual places—but he’s more exhausted than anyone should have a right to feel. Although he’s belly-down on some kind of furniture, his right hand brushes against the ground. He opens his eyes just wide enough to catch a piece of a shockingly clean floor. He rubs his thumb against it, in wonder. It won’t smudge.

“Wouldn’t do to have a dirty floor, now would it, dear?” trills a voice.

Jared supposes it wouldn’t, but he doesn’t want to speak. He makes a pitiful sleepy sound he’s pretty sure he hasn’t made since he was seven and attempts to burrow deeper into the softness beneath his nose. He’s never been so tired.

But the voice is shrill and constant, loud enough to set an ache in Jared’s eardrums. “Up, up, up!” it chirps, and something sharp pokes him between his shoulder-blades hard enough to make him groan again. “Places to go! Beings to see! Trains to catch!”

Jared mulls this over before deciding he doesn’t want to care. He supposes he should get a move on; he wants to avoid being yelled at, again. With great effort, he rolls himself up to a sitting position and realizes he’d been sprawled on an extra long chaise lounge littered with red pillows.

He frowns.

“There’s a dear,” the voice croons, and Jared feels a soft pat on his head. Making another sad sound, he opens his eyes a bit wider and takes in the shape of his surroundings.

There is a dumpy, wild-looking woman with violently red hair standing to his right. Jared imagines she must be nearing 60, but then he catches a glimpse of her eyes and suddenly he isn’t quite sure. It’s unsettling. She adjusts her sparkly, purple glasses with a quirk of her lips and gestures around the rest of the room, inviting him to look.

The room is small and nearly completely white, although it lacks any feeling of sterility. Echoes of distant train whistles continue to fade in through the cracked door, which is surrounded by all manner of potted plants. Jared can’t recognize a single one, although they seem well-groomed and exotic. Sniffing softly, Jared decides he can smell the perfume from the flowers mixed in with something mechanical, like oil.

“Do you like them?”

Jared stops trying to see what lies beyond the door and looks back at the woman, who is now lovingly regarding the plants.

“I haven’t much time of my own, you see, but I do what I can. Always nice to wake up somewhere with horticulture.” She nods, agreeing with herself, and turns back to Jared. “Although I’m sure there’s always an exception to the rule.”

She sticks out her hand, every finger ringed with a miniature clock of varying size and shape. Their ticking bleeds into Jared’s palm when he shakes, slightly bewildered.

“I’m Tilly,” she says smartly, “and I’ll be your death counselor.”

Jared blinks. He feels as if he’s missed something grandly important.

“Mmm,” Tilly agrees, suddenly producing and frantically flipping through the largest binder that Jared has ever seen. Pages of every color fly underneath her fingers, no space free from small print and dreadfully complicated-looking timetables. She makes little marks with a red pen, frowning from time to time.

Her finger-watches tick in the silence of the room.

“I’m dead,” says Jared finally, just to see how it feels.

“Most definitely,” she hums again, and wiggles her fingers to check the time. Times, Jared amends. His death counselor, Tilly, just checked the times on her finger-watches. Because Jared is dead. And because dead people apparently have death counselors. None of this makes any sense; it hurts his head in a horrible way.

Jared groans. He’d like to pretend he isn’t dead, but when he thinks of mysterious train whistles and floors that are impossible to smudge it seems like a silly thing to say. If he tries hard enough, he can almost taste the faintest bit of taco shell on his teeth.

Fuckin’ tacos.

“Now then,” Tilly slams the binder together with a resounding snap, “if you want to catch your train, you’ll have to follow me.” And she’s gone—the click of her heels already distant down the hall. Jared stares at the door, still tonguing his cheeks.

Frankly, Jared feels short on options. He’s scared enough that he doesn’t want to be alone and practical enough to realize that even if he wanted to escape, he has no idea where he’d try to go. He doesn’t feel dead, exactly, but he knows it the same way he knows (used to know?) that he has an unhealthy obsession with the color pink, or that Paris Hilton would be a lousy lay. Tilly seems nice enough—eccentric, maybe, but nice—and she’s his only hope of understanding what the hell is going on. Plus, all this talk about trains sets him a little on edge.

Jared rushes out the door, leaving the potted plants behind.

\--

The hall is mirror-lined and incredibly long, dream-like. Jared catches a glimpse of himself as he walks and he’s pleased to realize that he looks fairly alive: the loose, faded jeans of his death-day still hug his hips and his undershirt may be a bit whiter than he remembers, but his skin is still tanned and his hair is still floppy. No shoes, though. His feet slap and echo against the polished wood floor which is, unsurprisingly, completely spotless. He passes the occasional door—some open, some closed—where he catches glimpses of sleeping bodies sprawled over various bits of furniture.

Tilly’s waiting for him at the end of the hall, pen tapping on that gigantic binder of hers like an impatient PA and Jared spurs his body on a bit faster. As soon as he reaches her side, she starts walking again—flipping to another page that she carefully hides from his view.

“We’ll just walk and talk, shall we? I do realize this is a bit disconcerting, but death is quite a big undertaking—not to mention terribly complicated—and we have to move fast. So much to do in so little time!”

This makes no sense to Jared. He desperately clings to what remains of his sanity as they speed walk down the hall, taking lefts and rights and shortcuts through doors that Jared knows he has no hope of remembering.

“So,” he says, intent on getting the facts straight, “I’m dead.”

“Yes, honey, I’m afraid you are.”

“And I’m going to stay dead, right?”

Tilly throws him a pitying look and slows up her pace before flipping to the first black page Jared’s seen. The white text shimmers as she runs a red lacquered nail through the paragraphs, tapping the page when she finds what she wants.

“You,” Tilly says finally, “were buried on May 11, 2008. Not much hope now, I should think.”

It’s a fairly insensitive thing to say, but Jared doesn’t bother to feel upset. He’ll angst about the time change later.

“So,” Jared says, thinking out loud, “I’m dead. I’m staying dead. Doesn’t that mean I have a lot of time on my hands?”

“Oh you do, honey, you do!” Tilly is quick to assure, jerking Jared by the elbow when they make a particularly quick right turn, “Oodles of time, of course. It’s just, well. It’s the paperwork, you understand? Beings die all the time—willy-nilly, left and right—and it’s quite complicated to get everyone where they need to go without any backlog. There’s only a limited number of us, you know, and you can’t keep anyone waiting in those rooms too long or they go—watch your step, dear—poking around and getting lost or worse, getting on the wrong train.” She shudders a bit, at the thought.

Trains, again. Jared supposes that’s where this is all headed. They’ve been walking fairly fast, but it feels like they’re still deep in the maze of the mirrored hallway. Not knowing if it’s polite to ask but unable quench his curiosity all the same, he clears his throat.

“What happens when you get on the wrong train?”

“You go where you’re not meant to be,” Tilly says simply, but Jared catches a bit of an angry lilt to her tone that signals the end of his questioning. He nods in understanding and follows as best he can.

“We’ll start the questionnaire section now, so answer me honestly, Jared.” Tilly starts, voice bright and cheery once more. The ever-present pen is poised at the top of a green page and she looks up at Jared over the rims of her glasses, still walking. “You’ve no reason to lie, but some fools feel the need to be contrary. It won’t get you anywhere different, you understand?”

“Okay,” Jared says, suddenly unsure of what to expect.

“Excellent. Now, during the span of your lifetime, would you say you preferred breathing by means of water or air?”

“I can’t breathe underwater,” Jared says dumbly.

Tilly nods like Jared’s just made a very critical admission and makes a series of notes. She writes quickly and efficiently, pen skittering across the page like water on a hot skillet.

Flipping to a time-table, Tilly asks, “Have you ever felled a dragon? Troll? Mythical creature?”

“Wh—what?”

“Dragons. Have you felled one?” Tilly speaks very slowly and with great care, like Jared’s seen mothers do when they confront their children about a missing cookie.

“There, uh. There aren’t any dragons like that where I’m from. At least,” Jared scratches his head, “not that I know of.”

She looks disappointed. “No dragons?”

Jared only manages to shake his head.

“Pity.” Jared can very clearly see Tilly scratch an unhappy face onto the paper. “Do you know what an au-to-mo-bile is?” She looks up cautiously, like she’s half-expecting Jared to call her out on a lie.

This is ridiculous.

“Yeah, I know what a car is,” Jared says, and because he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed, mutters, “Been in quite a few, myself.”

Tilly stops walking, presses the binder against her heart. “Have you really?” Jared realizes that it’s brighter in this section of the hall; there are no light-bulbs or windows to speak of, but Tilly’s excitement is suddenly easier to see. “What are they like?”

Jared has no idea how to approach that question. “Nice mode of transportation, I guess,” he says, “Nice enough that I hope they have them wherever I’m going.”

He knows it’s a lame response, but Tilly doesn’t seem to care. “Understandably so,” she agrees, and suddenly looks rather wistful. “I’d very much like to ride in one someday,” she says, almost to herself.

“Why can’t you? No time off?” Jared asks, curious.

“Death is a busy business. Always a plague, always a war, seems like. And I always tend to get the questioning ones,” she adds with a poke of her pen, which makes Jared feel rather guilty until he sees the teasing spark in her eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, anyway.

“No need to apologize, but let’s swerve back on topic, shall we? Last question: are you aware of the existence of fire?”

“I am,” Jared says slowly, “but can’t you—can’t you just ask me what year I’m from?”

Tilly smiles fondly. “I could, but it wouldn’t really help. Time is a funny thing.”

Jared can imagine. If he can wrap his mind around having a death counselor, he supposes it isn’t too far of a stretch to assume that time is a flexible thing. “So all these questions? It’s to determine what time I’m from?”

“Among other things, yes. Which planet. Which universe. Likes, dislikes—it’s all important in determining where you need to go. That’s the big picture.”

And Jared can’t believe he didn’t think of it before, but a sudden thought squeezes his dead heart. He knows he’s imagining it, but the air feels colder as he thinks it through.

“Go, as in,” he struggles to keep the squeak out of his voice, “Go as in ‘afterlife’ go? Like…” Ineffectually, Jared points upward and does a horrible mime interpretation of wings beating. When Tilly only stares, he shapes his hands into a halo and self-consciously holds it over his head.

Tilly frowns. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Heaven?” he whispers, “Hell?”

“Of course, silly!” Tilly laughs, shifting the binder to a hip so she can pat her chest. It’s like she’s trying to keep the giggles in. “What did you think this was all leading up to, anyway?”

Somewhat unexpectedly, Jared’s heart stops.

He hadn’t been sure. Logically or illogically, he knew this place wasn’t the end-all, be-all of existence, but he hadn’t quite worked out what could possibly come next.

Suddenly he feels a bit nervous, much like a child on his way to the principal’s office. He frantically cards through all the things he could have possibly done on Earth that could be considered remotely hellish. The wig incident, the shellfish. Does stealing office supplies count? It was only the once, but he’s pretty sure the celestial would frown upon it. He’d been so poor, though, and it was only a couple of pencils. They’d had the really nice erasers that didn’t smudge and he just. He only took a few.

He worries his lip.

“Oh honey!” Tilly’s voice calls him back, “There’s no need to worry. I can see what you’re thinking. Hell isn’t as bad as all that.”

“I’m going to Hell?” He can’t help it, Jared screeches the words and clutches his racing heart. Harried thoughts, questions race through his mind: How close is it to the nearest exit? Is he or is he not capable of hijacking a heavenly train? How speedy is he without shoes?

Tilly grabs his shirt with a firm grip, rooting him in place while she shakes her head. “No, no, goodness, no! You’re going Upstairs, Jared, there’s no need to hide. No need to fidget.”

Jared hadn’t noticed, but they’ve stopped in front of a set of dull French doors with opaque windows and peeling white paint. Suddenly, train whistles and the clamor of raised voices are hardly muted by the glass. Tilly frowns as she shuffles through her pockets, still mumbling reassurances while Jared’s heart slows down to a more manageable level.

“Here it is,” she says finally, and triumphantly pulls out a narrow white envelope. “This is your ticket, dear. Show it to the man standing at Train 3,000. Three thousand, you understand. That’s where you need to go.”

“Thousand,” Jared nods numbly, just for good measure.

Tilly looks up at him, smiles happily. “Exactly that,” she says, and with the help of an enormous silver key, opens the door with a flourish.

Trains. An uncountable number of trains, all housed in a station bigger than anything Jared could have imagined. Raised railways and criss-crossing bridges stack trains on top of trains, levels on top of levels, every inch full of bustling activity. Jared can feel the drool dripping from his lip as he watches countless people making their way across wooden platforms; the old, the too-young, and everyone else in between seem to know exactly where they need to be.

As far as Jared can tell, no two trains are alike. There are purple trains, see-through trains, trains with hundreds of cars and some with only a few. He recognizes a few steam-locomotives from old Westerns mixed in with unnamable newer models, all of them sleek and otherworldly.

“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” Tilly remarks, and draws up a finger to point at a green spiral staircase tucked into a nearby corner. “Access to the thousand-level is that way, and your train leaves shortly.”

Jared manages to close his mouth. A hundred things come to mind, but there’s only one thing he can say. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Tilly says simply, still smiling. She hefts her binder up, reaches out a hand to grab Jared’s wrist. She shakes it fondly when she says, “It was lovely meeting you, Jared, although I’m sorry for the circumstances.”

Jared nods, still somewhat dazed. “Maybe I’ll see you again?”

“Perhaps,” Tilly says, although her eyes are sad. She pats his arm firmly before poking him in the back, shoving him away. “Now go on. You’ll save me paperwork if you’re on-time.”

Stepping forward, Jared’s immediately caught up in a tide of his fellow dead. They move him forward, setting up a fast pace that leads towards the stairway. He turns back just in time to wave at Tilly, who mouths a ‘goodbye’ and disappears back into the hallway, gone from sight.

There’s no time to think: Jared concentrates on not tripping, following a set of twin girls that break away from the main group to climb the green staircase. The ridged lines of the steps hurt his toes, but it isn’t long before he sees a cheesy bolded sign,

Trains 3,000 to 3,010: Your Afterlife Awaits!

and follows his feet until they stop before a modest five-car train. It looks strangely familiar, almost exactly like a train he once took in Prague on vacation. It’s cleaner, of course, with no sign of wear and tear, but something about the familiarity settles the fear in Jared’s stomach.

“Ready to board?” An older, bearded man approaches Jared with a warm smile. He sticks his hand out for Jared to shake, grips hard with calloused fingers. “Name’s Jim. And you must be Jared.”

Jared blinks. “I…yeah.”

“My last passenger today, after all. Knew it had to be you.” Jim rumbles out a laugh and backs away, deftly climbs into a car to grab a clipboard. “You got your ticket?” he asks when he comes back, and accepts the envelope when Jared hands it over, opening it up and nodding at whatever he sees.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Jim says, scanning the ticket until his eyes focus on some line in particular. He smirks wickedly, but says nothing beyond, “Hop on up, then. Any car you’d like.”

The cars look the same in whatever sunshine fills the station: all shiny, buffed metal and pristine windows. Jared ambles to the second car for no reason at all, and with the help of an encouraging nod from Jim, starts to climb inside. He turns back for one last look, surveying the steady stream of the dead. Nearly everyone he sees seems curious, hesitantly eager.

A strong, hearty shout calls Jared’s attention to his left. Impassioned pleading is nearly lost in the noise of the station, but Jared can make out the man’s expression, nevertheless: he’s terrified, gripping at the arm of a stoic caretaker that pushes him forward in the crowd. Jared can’t help but watch. Every inch of the stranger’s body vibrates with frenzy, but he recovers some kind of composure before he boards the train next to Jared’s; at the sight of his car, the man stops struggling, lets defeat settle in his shoulders. He raises his head at the last second, looks right at Jared. Jared’s struck by the man’s face: the green eyes and straight nose. He’s gorgeous. And despite where he’s going—despite his earlier protest—his body still manages to carry a bit of pride.

Jared’s heart clenches, but there’s nothing he can do. He feels a pang of sadness when the man breaks his gaze, disappears into his own train. Jared can only board himself, ready to forget and move on.

\--

The train ride is expectedly wonderful. His car is empty, and Jared sits himself down in a cushy window seat, watching as the chaos of the station is replaced with a cloudless sky, endless green hills. His heart pounds in a worrying way when he thinks, so Jared stands up, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, and follows his nose to the dining car.

Opening the door, Jared finally meets his fellow passengers. It doesn’t take long to realize that they all share a strong and healthy love for food: each of them insist he tries something different, holding up sandwiches and various bowls of soup with a can you believe it? smile. He’s very close to trying the barbeque ribs when someone bemoans the lack of Mexican.

Jared sets down the meat, appetite lost.

He meets Anandi (car accident), Reggie (too curious at the Grand Canyon), Ethel (too fond of cigarettes), and Warren (a very unlucky match with a skid-steer). Talking, they very quickly figure out that while they died at different times and ages, they all look fairly young. They all feel healthy and re-born.

Jim’s voice comes on the loudspeaker just as the train starts to slow down. “Ethel Ryan,” he says simply, “This is your stop.”

Ethel pats her curly blonde hair, shakes out invisible dust on her party dress. Her heels click on the wood as she makes her way to the door, everyone following behind. The door opens by itself, letting in a whoosh of fresh air tinged with rose.

“Oh,” Ethel breathes, and turns around, eyes glistening. “It’s exactly…” She doesn’t finish and smiles instead, blowing each of them a kiss before stepping off, nearly running towards a simple house in the distance. The train door closes, but not before they spot someone else running towards Ethel, arms outstretched.

“Well, ain’t that fuckin’ sweet,” Reggie says, half-disgusted, but everyone’s a bit more quiet after that, clearly wondering what it is they’ll see for the rest of eternity. Who they’ll see.

Jared’s never really lost anyone he loved; as far as he knows, he’s the first one to die. He wonders if he can expect to see his goldfish as he waves each of the passengers goodbye, each of them pleased at what they see. Reggie’s the last to go, and Jared stays standing by the door. Wondering where it is he’ll end up.

\--

Finally, it’s his turn.

The train slows and the door opens; Jim’s voice doesn’t come on the intercom, but Jared doesn’t need the guidance. He steps out into a clear day, sunshine instantly warming his face, and blinks at a fairly normal-looking depot.

His feet shuffle on the cool concrete of the platform, and the train purrs away as soon as he lets go of the handle. Jared watches it fade into the distance, alone and pleased at the wind-chimes that fill the sudden silence.

He walks into the depot, nearly unsteady on his legs as he looks around what appears to be a large and cozy living room. Everything smells very slightly of grapefruit and brown sugar. It tickles his nose. The ceiling beams are exposed—high and wooden, artfully imperfect—and the floor is expectedly unblemished.

It seems more like an expensive bed and breakfast than a train stop. Big bay windows are open enough to let a warm breeze tickle the airy white curtains. Morning sun bathes the room in a healthy glow, highlighting puffy couches around the room and two antique chairs on either side of a strong, white-washed door. A hand painted exit sign is cheerfully nailed above it.

Jared feels timid in spite of how comfortable the place tries to be, like he’s waiting in someone else’s house for his mother to finish chatting with her friend in the kitchen. He’s torn between wanting to sink down on a couch to just think and exploring what lies beyond the exit door.

Someone coughs softly from the corner.

Startled, Jared stumbles hard enough that he has to catch himself on a looming potted plant. It tilts and nearly falls before he sets it right, heart pounding. A tall, blond woman with pink lips and shockingly blue eyes waves at him from behind an information booth. Jared can’t be sure, but it looks like she’s wearing a vintage stewardess uniform.

“Hi, there!” the woman says brightly. Now that he’s noticed her, Jared can pick out her nametag. Tara, it reads, in delicate lettering. “I have information!”

“Hi,” Jared says back, still overcoming his shock. He’s afraid he might look menacing, so he throws in a friendly wave for good measure. He lopes over the short distance, happy to feel less alone. “I’m Ja—“

“It’s so nice to meet you Jared!” she blurts, cutting him off, “I knew you were coming, of course. We all did. Welcome! Would you like to see a map?” Nails bedazzled with far too much glitter are poised above a neat stack of brochures in a tray. Jared’s eyes catch on the odd sign below, Laminated for your convenience and pleasure!

Jared finds he doesn’t really have an opinion.

“Sure, I guess.”

“Excellent!” Tara chirps, and snatches a map from the tray. “Any place in particular you’d like me to point out? You’re new here, obviously. Sometimes people like to walk away with a direction in mind. Something to do, somewhere to start. The Pearly Gates are always popular. Or! Or maybe you’d be interested in visiting the new Garden reconstruction? It’s very pretty. Free apples! Or perhaps—” She cuts her speed-speech off mid-breath, brings a nail to her mouth to tap on perfect teeth. “Is it Tuesday?”

Jared blinks. “Er. I’m not really su—”

“Goodness! Oh, silly me. It’s only Monday. Nothing wrong with Mondays, of course, but that does mean that St. Peter won’t be in until tomorrow. Such a shame.” She pauses again to lean across the wooden counter, voice nearly shivering with glee. Jared backs away, fearful. “He’s on the lecture circuit, you know. Promoting his new book, giving chats. I’ve shaken his hand 26 times. I think he even knows my name.”

“That’s…” Jared pauses to think. Disturbing? Enlightening? A very curious use of eternal free time? “cool.”

Tara, for all her enthusiasm, is not extremely perceptive. She nods mildly in Jared’s general vicinity, but her eyes are glazed—likely lost in the glory of Handshakes Number One through Twenty-Six. “Very cool,” she agrees slowly, words drawn out a sedated drawl. Jared waits uncomfortably, eyeing the exit door and the sunshine beyond with growing eagerness.

In a rush of breath, Tara snaps back. Without the glaze of handshakes past, the blueness of her eyes is nearly alarming.

“So, Jared, does any of that appeal to you? Can I circle anything on the map? Call ahead? Schedule a tour?” With one hand hovering over a can of pens and the other on the handle of an ancient phone, Tara looks slightly crazed, somewhat like an overly obedient dog on uppers.

Walking around Heaven doesn’t necessarily seem like a bad way to spend his afternoon, but the idea of retreating to someplace of his own—maybe somewhere with a California King and a hearty selection of sandwich meat—sounds much more tempting.

He tries to break it to her gently, slowly picking up the map. “Thanks for this. And for the help, of course, but I think I’m good. No calls, or anything.” Her smile wobbles ever so slightly and Jared feels like he did in fourth grade, when he accidentally ran over Megan’s favorite doll in his Hot Wheels car. Damn. “But, uh. I feel sort of dumb for asking, but where do I live? Do I live anywhere, or does everyone just sort of perpetually wander?”

Crisis averted. Tara folds her hands primly and brightens her smile. “You can live anywhere you’d like.” And she must retain some sort of human instinct because she speaks up again as soon as Jared lets the frustration creep into his eyebrows. “I think you should wander around, like you said. At least for awhile. If you see anything you’d like—and you should, really, considering this is your Heaven—it’s yours. Anything unoccupied.”

“I just…pick somewhere?”

“Anywhere you’d like to live,” she nods, encouraging. “Visualize! Just try to picture what you’d really like to have and Management usually pulls through. Within reason, of course.”

What Jared would really like is a fucking sandwich. He rubs at his belly, trying to decide when he last ate. Does the ice cream on the beach count? And if so, are the remnants of mint chocolate chip still floating around in his gut? Does food carry over into the post-death plane of existence?

“Or,” Tara sounds a bit uncertain, like she’s about to suggest something daring. “You could try going to a realtor. It’s not terribly conventional, but they exist.”

“A realtor?”

Tara nods, almost bashfully. “Some people need extra help,” she says simply, reaching down to tug and smooth at the end of her uniform top. “In any event, I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“I hope so,” Jared says, and wonders if he’s clear to leave. Tara suddenly seems distracted, continually opening and closing some kind of cabinet near her knees. She’s half-hidden under the counter and Jared makes a break for it, muttering a quiet thanks and inching towards the exit.

It looks like a lovely day. Some new kind of smell, flowery and sweet, overpowers the depot the closer he come to the door.

“Jared?” Tara’s voice calls him back. “I think you forgot something.”

Nearly free, Jared turns around wearily. He wonders how much patience he’s expected to have on a daily basis in Heaven, if he’s met his quota.

Jared is pleasantly surprised: it’s a sandwich. A very triumphant-looking Tara is holding a glorious, double-stacked sandwich that may or may not make Jared’s cock twitch in his pants. The smell of it lures him closer, making him salivate.

“There’s—there’s no way I forgot this. It’s toasted.” Jared doesn’t want to admit it, for fear Tara will deny him the food-orgasm that is sure to come when he takes a bite. The noises will be obscene. Jared flutters a hand forward, at the thought. Heat radiates from the browned bread, like a mini-furnace of something sinful and orgasmic and oh god he wants a bite right-the-fuck-now. “It’s hot,” he makes himself say, “It can’t be mine.”

“No,” Tara says, sounding pleased, “I’m quite sure it’s yours.”

“It’s on a plate,” Jared says helplessly.

“I can keep the plate, if that bothers you. Really,” she says, extending her arm with a meaningful look, “you should take it. Eat it. It’s for you.”

Jared is not one to deny free food, questionable origins or no. Barring the existence of some heavenly type of roofie and a god with an extreme sense of irony, it is very unlikely he’ll be poisoned. Again. With great care, Jared lifts the sandwich from the plate.

It’s heavy and thick in his hands, professional-looking with a neat wooden stick in the middle to keep things from falling apart. The beef steak nearly melts into the bread. Jared wants to do very nasty things to this sandwich with his mouth, but he remembers his place and looks up to see a satisfied Tara.

“Thank you,” he says with weight, “This is awesome. You are awesome.”

Tara blushes, as expected, and waves him off with a shoo-ing hand.

Jared flashes a goofy smile, turning back to salute with the sandwich as he makes his way through the exit. The door empties out onto a wide veranda, immaculate and decorated with potted plants and rocking chairs. He takes a step further, surveying endless green hills and the glint of a blue-jeweled ocean in the distance. A brick walkway leads away from the house into an impressive garden, so expansive that Jared can barely see the road at the end of it. He imagines that’s where he needs to go. Awed, Jared takes a quick bite of his sandwich and groans pathetically because this has to be Heaven. Or at least a very elaborate joke.

“Have a great eternity!” Tara’s voice echoes out onto the veranda. It sounds so casual, said thoughtlessly, but Jared reels a bit in the face of what that might mean.

\--

He’s still shoeless as he wanders, but no one Jared passes or meets seems to care. He waves at them, shyly at first, but feels a smile swell on face when each and every person nearly glows with happiness as they wave back. “Hello, Jared!” they say, “So happy to meet you!” and it’s all so genuine, not a trace of anything less than innocent and unwarped excitement.

When he’s not waving, he’s still smiling—eagerly soaking in the worn cobblestone streets, one branching off of the next into unexplored distances. Little stores line the roads he walks on, all brightly painted and collectively unlike anything Jared’s ever seen. Some of the structures seem impossible; the small bistro on the 2nd corner looks suspiciously like his grandmother’s house, but the gardening shop and the bakery look like something out of a dream. See-through roofs, sideways chimneys, and enough gravity-defying architecture to make Jared’s head spin.

Any kind of worry lingering from the depot washes away as he walks. The happiness of everyone, the utter rightness of everything seeps into Jared’s skin, burrows into his bones, and he feels light. Careless and pleased.

Paying attention, Jared can see how his Heaven tweaks itself as he goes along. A small apple tree reminds him of summers spent visiting his cousins in Michigan, running through his uncle’s orchard and losing himself in rows upon rows of trees. Jared smiles at the happy memory and laughs when he crosses the next street and hears childish shrieks of laughter, loud and clear in the daytime. They’re playing in an orchard, of course, and Jared stops when he notices the small house off to the side.

Compared with the majority of the other buildings, it’s fairly simple and small. Jared’s always liked brick houses; he silently approves of the warm exterior, the slightly battered shutters, the sway of the cushy hammock on the wrap-around porch. He’s up the steps before he knows it, running a hand over the smooth wood of the railing. There’s no way to tell, of course, but somehow he knows there’s no one inside.

The door happily creaks open. Everything’s bathed in the rich light of the day, and Jared explores the first floor and the second with a fluttering feeling in his chest. He wishes little things were different and suddenly they are – the empty shelves are soon stacked with books, the coffee table littered with sports magazines. The TV gets just a little bigger and the rooms expands a bit when he thinks about a longer couch and Jared feels a bit silly about that, but then his eye catches at the new frames on the wall. He walks over and looks at the faces of his family, of himself.

There’s the picture Jeff took of them in their backyard. Jared had a copy for years and lost it in LA. His brother did a horrible job—his thumb is a pale smudge in the corner and Meg is half out of frame—but Jared’s always liked it. His smile is horribly wide and toothy; his mom is laughing at something to the side, his dad caught in the middle of slapping away a bug on his shirt. But it’s them and they were happy.

There’s more, of course. Meg in her soccer uniform. Jared’s first day of kindergarten. His parents at the hospital the day Jeff was born, so proud. Some of his friends. Jared looks at them all, takes in the shapes of their faces.

He walks a little slower, after that.

He gives the place another once-over, changing little things as he goes, and eventually ends up back where he started, standing out on the front porch. Kids are still screaming and playing in the trees; he waves at them and they all knock their heads together in a little kiddie pow-wow before rushing over.

“Do you have any candy?” the tallest boy asks. He barely makes it up to Jared’s hip.

“I like pie,” says a little girl, and tugs on Jared’s jeans. “Could you make me some pie?”

Sometimes Jared feels too tall. He crouches down and tries really, really hard to look small. The little girl looks pleased, so he figures he did the right thing. “Pie is awesome,” he starts, and they all nod, crowding closer. “So’s candy. But I just di—uh. I just got here, though, and I didn’t see anything like that in the kitchen.”

They all laugh. “You’re silly,” another boy says. He’s missing his two front teeth and Jared has the sudden urge to pinch his chubby cheeks. He keeps his hands at his sides, but it’s a near thing.

“Why am I silly?” He plays along, already lighter in the presence of their company.

“Because if you want to have candy in your kitchen,” the little girl pokes at his knee, “you will have candy in your kitchen. And pie.”

Oh. It’s odd how he’d already forgotten.

“Right,” he says slowly, “Well, then. I guess I have candy.” They all scream some more, jumping up and down in glee. Jared laughs and opens his mouth before thinking. “Is it cool with your parents, though?” he asks, and immediately wants to cut out his tongue.

“Our parents are alive,” says the tallest boy, “Duh!”

Jared feels horrible. He’s a horrible, mean dead person that just reminded a bunch of sweet and innocent children of an ugly truth and how does he even deserve to be here? He should be off rotting somewhere with the villainous and cruel, not surrounded by kids on a roomy porch.

“Jared?” Chubby Cheeks rests a hand on Jared’s knee and Jared feels a little shocked that the little-boy voice is still light. Just like he’s shocked that the kid knew his name, even though everyone else seems to. Just like he’s shocked that he can look back into brown eyes and know that he’s talking to Timothy, that Nolan is the tallest and that Gretel is the youngest and that Matthew has yet to say a word.

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay,” Timothy says, and pats his knee. There’s a brief moment of silence before he bounces a little and sighs. “So do you have any candy?”

“’Course I do,” Jared says, grateful, and nearly topples over as they rush behind him into the house. He’s pretty sure he hears the faint sound of candy wrappers being torn to bits, but just to be sure, he concentrates hard on blueberry pie. In less than a second, there’s a fresh round of happy shrieking.

He takes one more look at the trees before turning around. Gretel’s waiting for him with an outstretched hand, mouth already stained blue. “C’mon!” she says, urgent, “They’re gonna eat it all!”

Jared laughs, loud and real, and takes her hand. He follows her into the house.

Into his home.

\--

The food never stops being less than spectacular.

There’s never any wait at the restaurants, of course. New diners and bistros seem to pop up almost daily, much to Jared’s delight. Paying is optional, perhaps even discouraged in favor of a friendly wave to the cooks or a smile at the server, which works out well considering he has yet to find a bank. Or money. His favorite dishes are always served hot, never burning, and the lasagna he bites into on his fifth Thursday tastes exactly like the kind his Momma used to make.

He tries not to think of his family too much. He knows what they’re up to, who’s doing what, and it’s a welcome kind of ache; his mailbox is always overflowing with updates, courtesy of some bizarre heavenly watch program.

Meg eats peppers now. Seems to prefer the red ones despite their continued tendency to clash with her lipstick. Desperately wish to intervene on her behalf. – Celestial Agent #101024

Your mother found the missing shoe. Has yet to realize she misplaced the other. – Celestial Agent #393837

Meg went shopping. New lipstick. Less clashing. Very much a joyful occasion. – Celestial Agent #101024

Your father thought of you when he drove by the park. He misses the way you smiled. – Celestial Agent #39

More shopping. More clashing. Despair. – Celestial Agent #101024

Jared keeps the tiny messages in a seemingly depthless shoebox next to his couch. He picks through them when he pleases, equal parts jealous and pitying for whoever’s job it is to spy upon family members. It’s never too depressing, though. He knows he’ll see them again.

It’s a fairly simple life. There’s never an alarm, but Jared finds himself waking up early each day, stepping outside and happily taking in the sunrise as he picks through whatever fruit his trees dream up. He’ll walk through the town, meeting people as he goes, and fill up his day however he sees fit: tossing a football with one of the kids, helping Mr. Sheldon build his boat, seeing his favorite childhood movies at the theater. There’s always something to be done, someplace new to wander. He takes it all in stride.

He makes friends. He meets a guy named Tom at yoga, gets offered a job at the one and only real estate company when he mentions his knack of fixing up houses. Sandy introduces herself when Jared tries to learn how to knit at the craft store. He likes her immediately, falls a little in love with her smile. She works with Tom and encourages Jared take him up on his offer while they learn to make hats and socks for a winter Jared’s not sure will ever come.

He takes the job, dreams up houses for the nearly deceased. Routines form. Time goes on. When the thought nags at him, teasing and cold, Jared tries to forget that it could literally last forever.

\--

Needless to say, Heaven’s expectedly wonderful. It’s just, the smiling.

Jared’s always considered himself a cheerful guy. He’s easy-going and chatty, always ready to joke around or bust out a grin—but truth be told, Heaven’s testing his patience.

It’s relieving, at first, to see everyone walking around in a constant state of excitement and glee. No kind of anger means no fighting, no kind of disagreements or awkward conversations in the office or elsewhere. The ability to dream up almost anything anyone could ever want—from a Tic-Tac to a cuckoo clock—obviously relieves a great deal of tension. And it’s nice, of course, but it’s so far from normal.

And maybe it’s wrong of Jared to expect something normal from somewhere so grand and impossible as Heaven, but the nagging thought is an open wound in his brain. It festers, growing more diseased with every passing week.

He bumps into a woman carrying her groceries, one day. Fruits are squashed and eggs are broken, splattered on the street.

Jared scrambles, drops to his knees to pick up what he can. “Sorry, sorry,” he blurts, and forces himself to look up at the woman’s face. At the very least, he’s expecting a mild kind of irk, but she’s smiling brilliantly—cheeks nearly cracking with the force of it.

“Hi, Jared!” she says happily, brushing off wayward egg goop on her shirt. “It’s so nice to see you, again. Did you finish your socks?”

Oh, right. Black hair and red nails: Janet, from knitting. Jared stops trying to scoop up bits of melon and stands. “I—yes, I did,” he says, remembering the strange way he never made a mistake. If asked, he couldn’t even begin to explain how to make a sock; the needles and his hands seemed to know what to do on their own, no effort involved. And as wonderful as it’d been to hold up a green sock at the end of it all, the accomplishment felt a little hollow. Thinking about it makes his stomach ache; he suddenly wants to escape, but tries to be conversational. “Did you? You finished your socks?”

“Of course I did,” she says, and Jared notes that the stain on her shirt is already gone. Another quick glance at the street confirms that the fallen groceries on the street have also vanished, magically whisked away. It’s unsettling.

Shaking away his disappointment, Jared tries to apologize again. He waves a helpless hand at the clean street, Janet’s clothes. “I’m really sorry about the groceries,” he says, “I can go and pick you up whatever it is you—”

Janet laughs merrily. “Oh, Jared. It’s not the smallest problem; I can do it myself. I love shopping!”

“Right, but.” He probably shouldn’t continue, and yet the words slip out. He has to know. “Aren’t you mad?”

She quirks her head, inquisitive. “Why would I be mad?”

“I just—I just ran into you. I ruined your groceries, you have to get more, and I.” He falters, losing his nerve as she continues to smile. “There was egg on your shirt,” he finishes lamely.

“Not anymore,” she points out.

“Not anymore,” Jared agrees, soft and strangely sad. He suddenly wants to be gone, escape before she can invite him back to her apartment for tea and inevitably dinner. And it’s not that she’s unkind, but Jared’s feet itch in his sandals. “I’ll see you later,” he says quickly, when she opens her mouth.

“Come over for dinner, sometime!” She calls to his retreating back. “Harry and I will make pie! It’ll be exactly the way you like it!”

Knowing she’s not lying only makes him walk faster.

\--

The feeling of wrongness never really goes away. And so against most of his natural instincts, Jared tries being an ass.

He bumps into more people leaving the grocery store, waits until they come out a second time and does it all over again. No one—not once—has ever been anything less than perfectly polite and pleased.

He’s smashed windows, broken statues, clogged fountains, cut down trees and bushes. Everything grows back or repairs itself in seconds, the owners stumbling out because of the sound merely to say hello.

He blushes with shame when he does it, but he spends a day criticizing what people wear, the way they’ve styled their hair. He’s lying, of course, but his victims always laugh. “Thank you for your honesty, Jared! It’s so wonderful to know you care.” At the end of it all, they smile proudly before offering him some kind of food.

All of this swirls in his mind one night at a beachside party, thrown together by Tom. The champagne is light and bubbly on his tongue. Jared lets it swish around in his mouth before swallowing, feeling strangely out of place as he looks around at the happy crowd. The ping of clacking glasses sounds almost harsh in the nighttime.

He stands alone until he can catch the wrist of a young-looking worker, careful not to spill his drink. “Can I ask you a question?” And when the man—short and thin with boxy teeth—nods, Jared asks, “What are we celebrating, exactly?”

“Oh!” The man blinks up at him, smiling, and Jared suddenly recognizes him from accounting. He’s pretty sure the guy’s name starts with a ‘G.’ “Well, a fantastic fiscal year, of course! Excellent numbers, all around the board.”

Jared almost lets it go, even though he has no idea how the company makes money that Heaven doesn’t have. They never charge. Something’s still nagging him, and he’s almost afraid to ask. “You’ve worked for Tom for awhile, right?”

Mr. G looks pleased enough to pop. He puffs out his chest proudly when he says, “One hundred and eighty-seven years, this February.”

Jared keeps a careful hold on his drink. Even so, it threatens to crack. “And have you, uh. Has there ever been a year without a party?”

“I don’t catch your meaning.” His smile is still cheery, bright and unconcerned.

“I mean, we’re having this party because we’ve had a…” Jared flaps his free hand in the air, attempting to summon up the right words.

Mr. G smiles and rocks forward on his feet. “A fantastic fiscal year.”

“Right.” Jared can almost hear the glass groaning as he squeezes, talking fast. “We’re having this party because we’ve had a fantastic fiscal year and I’m asking if, since you’ve started working, the company has ever, you know. Lost money. Had a deficit in some shape or form.”

“Lost…money?”

“There’s always been a party?” Jared asks again, voice high and shaking with frustration. Already guessing the answer, it’s almost punishing to ask. “Every year. Every year you’ve always had a party for turning a profit?”

“Ah,” Mr. G nods his head in some sudden understanding and brings his glass closer to his lips, ready to sip. He smiles. “Not a penny lost throughout the ages, I’m told,” he says proudly.

“Do you,” Jared hesitates, glancing towards the newly-formed conga line and the happy, laughing crowd. He spots Tom at a table near the tail end, chatting up a small, relaxed crowd of men in suits. Jared pitches his voice low. “Do you think that’s normal? Never a loss?”

The little man nearly chokes on his wine, but he still manages to wheeze out, “Of course it’s normal! This is Heaven, Jared,” he says, and takes a moment to elbow Jared lightly in the stomach, winking. “Or did you forget?”

“I—no.” Something heavy settles in Jared’s stomach, all his panic and frenzy pushed aside. He concentrates on the rim of his glass. “I didn’t forget,” he says quietly.

“Well, good!” Mr. G says brightly. “That’s the spirit. Do you need anything else? Any more questions? I’d be happy to answer.”

“No, that’s all,” Jared says slowly, and then remembering his manners, adds, “Thanks G…?”

“Zachary.” The man smiles up at him, wiggles his fingers in a wave as he turns to walk away. “I hope I see you later, Jared,” he calls back, and immediately joins the conga. “We should continue our chat!”

Jared watches before walking away.

\--

“Jared?”

He hadn’t heard her follow. Sandy looks inhumanely gorgeous in her white dress, soft brown curls falling down around her face where they aren’t pinned. She’s carrying her sandals in her hand and steps closer when Jared tries to smile. “Can I sit?” she asks, voice quiet.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he says, meaning it, and pats the sand next to his hip.

She settles next to him, scrunches her knees up to her chin and follows Jared’s gaze out towards the ocean. Everything feels unhurried and hazy, and Jared can’t stop thinking. He doesn’t feel at rest.

“Is this…” Jared swallows, feeling horrible. The moon is high and full, sending down a clear light on the beach. Small waves lap at the shore and Jared doesn’t have to strain to hear the echoing laughter from the party. Everyone sounds light and happy. Careless. The stars twinkle brightly in the sky and the sand holds the heat of the day and it couldn’t be more perfect.

Jared couldn’t feel worse.

His lips pop in the quiet when he summons up enough courage to ask, “Is this all there is?”

“It’s Heaven,” Sandy says, soft and confused. She reaches over a tiny hand to rub small circles on his shoulder. “What more could you want?”

Jared lets out a small noise of disbelief, reaches up to furiously rub at his eyes. He feels cracked, like a broken toy pushed to the back of the closet. It’s shameful. What kind of a person is he, that he isn’t satisfied with Heaven? There’s nothing else. No one could want anything else. And neither should he.

“Right,” he croaks out. “Nothing more to want.”

“You’ll feel better soon,” Sandy promises. “I’ll talk to Tom. Maybe he can help.”

Jared can’t bring himself to say anything else. He sincerely doubts Tom can do anything, but he smiles a shaky smile at Sandy and sighs. “Thanks,” he says softly, and feels like the jerkiest of jerks when Sandy still looks concerned. He swallows, spit thick in this throat, and thinks about how he’s acting. “I’m that guy, aren’t I? Debbie Downer meets Van Gogh on a bender.”

Sandy nods, slow and grave. “You kind of are,” she says, and reaches up to tweak his nose. “Good thing I like you anyway.”

\--

Jared skips work the next day. He doesn’t bother calling, knowing it won’t be a problem, and heads over to pier he’d dreamt up last Thursday. He focuses on making it longer as he walks, dreams of miles of sea-wet wood disappearing into the distance.

He isn’t disappointed: the pier looks longer than ever when he arrives, the entrance newly flanked with stands selling hot dogs and funnel cakes with extra powdered sugar, free of charge. Jared wants to move on, but he stops politely and tugs out the ends of his empty pockets when one of the workers flutters over, pie in hand.

“Hello, Jared,” she says. A red checkered apron covers a white party dress and her pretty frame. Completely inappropriate for pie-cooking, although Jared doubts she made it in the first place. “Have a pie. It’s your favorite.”

“I haven’t got any money,” he insists. He tugs harder on his ends of his pockets, already knowing it won’t work. “Thanks, though,” he says quickly, and tries to walk past.

“Nonsense!” The woman shuffles her way back in front, pie outstretched. She pulls a silver fork from one of her shallow pockets and sticks it in the center of the golden crust. With help from a sudden breeze, Jared is overwhelmed with the smell of sweet raspberry. It tickles his nose. “I wouldn’t take your money, anyway,” she coos. “It’s a gift.”

“I—” Jared looks longingly down the dock, grasps the back of his neck with one hand and does his best to sound sincere. “I really appreciate it. I do, but I’m okay without it. I promise I’m not hungry.”

“Of course you are!” she laughs, completely unconvinced. “Big boy like you? You could use some fattening up, I’m sure. Go on and take it.”

Jared feels helpless. Nearly defeated, he throws a longing look at the horizon and desperately wishes for a bike. Or a typhoon. A big, nasty, pie-destroying typhoon. He closes his eyes to half-hope, imagining black clouds and violent wind.

Someone clears their throat.

He blinks back the brightness of the sunshine, entirely unsurprised to see everything as it was. “I—” he starts again.

“Please?” She bats her eyelashes and cocks her head, pouting. Jared would have found it cute in a different, less ironic life. “Won’t you take it? It’s extra. It’ll just go to waste if you don’t eat it.”

Jared sighs. “Sure,” he says tonelessly, smile completely erased. She bounces a bit when he stretches out his hand, accepting the pie and the heavy silver fork. “What do you want me to do with the…” He waves the utensil around the air.

“Keep it,” she says, as he knew she would. “It’s a spare.”

“Thanks.” Jared takes a closer look at the pie. Sniffs. It’s still steaming.

“Not a problem,” she chirps, and nearly skips back to her stand. There’s a man waiting for her, smiling and clutching her close when she runs into his arms. They kiss with far too much tongue and an extreme case of neck rigidity and Jared’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel. Mostly, he just wants to escape.

Jared takes off before he can be accosted with any other bakery goods, ignoring the new man standing near the edge with a sign: Bike for Sale. He knows without asking that he could get it for free, but he’d never manage with the pie and now that he has it, it actually does sound appetizing. He munches on it while he walks. It tastes expectedly wonderful, the product of a brilliant baker. The crust flakes down his shirt as he eats and Jared purposefully tries not to think of napkins, enjoying the mess he makes.

He walks for hours, the wood beneath his feet never-ending as he moves further and further away from the shore. The sun eases into the horizon and Jared knows he’ll never be jaded enough not to marvel at the colors, the way the red of the light and the blue of the sea blend together like a dream.

It’s perfect. Sunsets in Jared’s heaven are never anything less than perfectly stunning, but something’s missing. He feels small and untethered in the face of the quiet he stands in, the silence so heavy it hurts his heart. The vastness of the water pushes in until Jared realizes he’s never felt more alone.

Hand itching for something inexplicable, Jared glances back towards the shore and frowns. He’s far; it’s true, but nowhere near as far as he should be. His heart sinks, heavier than it already was, and he turns to look the other way just to be sure. The pier continues on, seemingly endless, but somehow he knows there’s no point.

Not the slightest point.

Jared slowly sinks to the wood, brushing away the hint of wetness near his eyes with the back of his hand. He sets the empty pie plate and fork next to his feet before settling down on his back, eyes trained upward on no particular piece of sky. There’s nothing much to hear: the sea is a calm white noise, quietly lapping at the pier. Jared wonders if he’s meant to feel at peace, can’t quite shake some small sense of despair. He tries to breathe away the feeling, counting out the rise and fall of his chest, letting the tang of the sea fill his lungs. The sky is a bruised purple, nearly shimmering with the promise of stars.

He dreams of a boat for hours. It never comes.

\--

 

“Hey, Jared.” Sandy smiles up at him from her desk, pen stuck behind her ear. “How’d the showing go?”

“Good,” he says honestly, if a bit weary. “It went well. She really liked it. She said she’s expecting her husband any day, so the sunken tub idea worked out. Thanks for that.” It’d been Sandy’s idea in the first place; Jared only had to dream it up. “She did not, however, like the color scheme in the uh, I don’t know. The one bedroom with the fichus.” Sandy nods understandably, already making a note. “I told her you could help her with that. I’m no good at matching.”

“I’d love to.”

Jared nods his thanks, mind already on what he’ll make for dinner. He shifts on his feet and walks towards his desk, mentally carding through recipes as he goes.

“Erm, before you leave?” Sandy speaks up, suddenly standing next to him. “Tom wants to see you.”

Jared blinks, not quite expecting the rush of fear. “Tom wants to see me?” Sandy nods. “What for?”

Sandy shrugs with one shoulder, hitting the end of her dangly earring. “Not sure.”

“I’m not…” he swallows, throat suddenly dry, “I’m not in trouble, am I?” Jared doesn’t really think it’s an option, truth be told, but he’s worried despite himself. He can’t be fired. It’s practically impossible to make a mistake and he’s never had a single complaint, not from anyone. And honestly, Jared could not care less if he was fired, but it’s the principle of the thing. He’s always been very fearful of corporate rejection.

He bites his lip.

“Stop worrying,” Sandy scolds, slapping his hand away from his lip. “Just go talk to him. It’s probably nothing serious.”

“Of course not,” Jared squeaks out, and brushes away invisible lint on his t-shirt and shorts. For the first time, he feels extremely unprofessional. “Here I go,” he says, for no reason at all, and Sandy rolls her eyes, shoo-ing him away.

\--

Tom’s office is modern, something off of Wall Street, full of straight lines and shiny metal. Jared tries not to clutch at the desk while Tom chatters on the phone.

“Thanks, Jenny. I know you will,” he finally says, and sets the phone down on the receiver with a click. He looks up at Jared, face fairly unreadable. He seems relaxed, though, and it’s calming. “Jay! Glad you could come.”

Jared swallows thickly. “Always happy to see you,” he says, with more confidence than he really feels. “What’s up?”

Tom settles back in his chair, bounces a little as he rearranges various papers on his desk. “Sandy came to talk to me the other day. She’s worried about you.”

“Oh?” Jared squeaks.

Tom nods. “Said it seemed like you feeling a little down and out.”

When he doesn’t continue, Jared feels like he needs to fill the silence. “Well, yeah,” he blabbers, “Just a little bummed, I guess. Being dead is—especially here, it’s great and all, but it just got to me. Momentary lapse,” he lies, and realizes he’s been tapping out a loud rhythm on his chair with his thumb. He stops.

“She said you’d be nervous,” Tom laughs. “Don’t be. I want to offer you a job.”

Jared blinks. “A job? But I—” He sucks in his bottom lip, lamely turns around and gestures back at Tom’s door. His desk and Sandy beyond. “I have a job.”

“Jesus, Jay. A different one,” Tom says, laughing. “I think you’d feel a whole lot better if you moved around a bit. Traveled, went somewhere new. There’s a position open that’s been, uh.” He looks away, hands suddenly busy, fiddling with his stapler. “Well, it’s been open for awhile, actually, but I think you’d be the perfect man for the job.”

Jared lets himself smile. “Really?”

“Really, really.” Tom rolls his eyes. “You want it or not?”

Jared opens his mouth, but his eyes catch on a bit of movement at Tom’s windowsill. He looks closer, focusing in on a tiny, chubby bird. It chirps happily—its tune easily audible through the glass—and hops around on its little bird feet, chomping up some seeds from a hanging feeder. Preening its blue feathers like something out of Snow White, it’s adorable. And nauseating.

“No happy birds?” The question tumbles out of his mouth before he can think.

“Excuse me?”

“Are they—” Too late to stop now; Jared soldiers on, not completely sure why he needs to know. “Do they have any happy birds, where I’d be going?”

Tom blinks at him. “Uh.” He shifts in his chair, suddenly very interested in dusting off his keyboard, and coughs. “That would…that would be a negative.”

“Oh,” Jared can’t help but sigh in pleased shock, mind already whirring away at the possibilities. He lets himself imagine leaving, going someplace new. Somewhere without all the smiling. Somewhere with a little less obnoxious holiday-esque cheer.

It’s pitiful that he nearly salivates at the thought.

“Yeah,” he blurts, almost faster than his lips can form the word. Absently, Jared wonders if he should possibly ask what it is he’d be doing. “Yes. I mean. Yes, I really want the job.”

“Great!” Tom booms, clapping his hands together with enough force to rattle his Jesus bobblehead. “Good choice, Jared. It’s settled, then! I’ll just—” He picks up his phone, shakes it once in the air for good measure before jabbing at the keypad. Pulling the receiver to his ear, he says, “I’ll just confirm it now. Before you—well. I’ll give you more details when I’m finished.”

Something huge and wonderful is threatening to build in Jared’s stomach, but he pushes it down in favor of being semi-professional. “Okay,” he says, and sits through several minutes of Tom-chatter, nearly squirming on his seat. His mind is gone, already imagining where it is he’ll go, and he jumps a little when Tom pokes his arm.

Already off the phone, he smiles down at Jared. “All confirmed. Would leaving tomorrow be too soon?”

Jared may or may not crush Tom in a bone-breaking hug.

\--

Jared’s excited. Even his dreams are excited and he wakes up the next day nearly buzzing with glee. Tom’s supposed to pick him up at nine and even though Jared’s been up for hours, he’s still a little shocked when the doorbell rings, immediately followed by the creak of the door.

Jared bounds down the steps, grin firmly in place. His bag is already packed by the couch, an errant sock peeking out from a pocket. He points at it proudly, looks over at Tom. “Lookit,” he says, “All ready to go.”

“I can see that,” Tom says dryly.

“I’m excited.”

“Believe it or not, I can see that, too.”

Jared laughs, lets some happiness loose. He claps his hands together, pulling them apart to gesture around his tidy living room. His momma taught him to pick up before traveling, and Jared had always taken the advice to heart. He’d mopped, dusted, and vacuumed. He’d Pledge-d.

“Ready to go?” he asks brightly.

Tom gives him a once-over, undoubtedly taking in Jared’s “Crazy for Swayze” t-shirt, his jeans, and his worn sandals. “You should think about changing your shoes,” he says off-handedly, pulling an expandable folder from his messenger bag.

“What’s wrong with my shoes?” Jared looks down at his feet, wiggles his toes in the worn leather. They’re the same sandals he’s worn into work every day for the past three months. “Is there a dress code, or something?”

Tom hesitates before clearing his throat. “Well, no. Not technically. Just something to consider.” He looks over at Jared under his eyelashes, sheepish for the first time, and confesses, “I hear it rains, a bit.”

Rain. Jared’s nearly forgotten about rain.

“Okay, then,” he says, thinking about his boots upstairs. “Just let me find something else. I’ll be right back.”

When he returns, Tom’s still lingering in Jared’s doorway, looking decidedly uncomfortable. He looks up when Jared sets his bag down in the kitchen for some last-minute snacking. Jared’s loathe to leave his fruit, even if he knows it’d keep. Wasting no time, he takes a hearty bite out of a green apple and throws the rest of it into his bag, still munching. He can feel Tom’s eyes on the back of his neck.

“D’you want a bite?” he asks, waving his delicious treat in the air.

Tom eyes the apple uneasily. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” Jared smiles, and starts to pick up his bag.

“One second.” Tom’s still holding his folder; he reaches in to tug out a narrow black envelope. The way he holds it, Jared figures it must be made out of lead, but it’s light when Tom presses it into his hand. “That’s your ticket,” Tom says firmly. “Don’t open it. Leave it like it is, and someone will take it on the train.”

Jared slides it into his jean pocket, nodding.

Tom continues, still rummaging through the folder. “I’m not sure of the exact route, but you’ll want to get off at the last stop. Your guide is scheduled to pick you up at the statue of Nergel the Damned at six o’clock, their time. There should be a bus. You’ll have to re-set your watch.” Satisfied at whatever he sees, Tom re-binds the folder and stuffs it into Jared’s bag. He points at the newly zippered pocket, jabs at it while he speaks. “Keep that folder with you. Your guide needs it.”

“For…?”

“Identification purposes,” Tom says. “There’s a map and a bus ticket in there too. Now let’s go. I’ll explain what you’ll be doing on the way.”

\--

The depot is just as Jared remembers it: spacious, well-kept, and now somehow eerily familiar of his great-aunt Beatrice’s home in Georgia. Sunlight shines brightly through the glass doors that open to the platform, nearly blinding.

Jared hefts his bag up on his shoulder while they wait, munching on a warm cookie from the bakery. They’d been a goodbye gift: a wrinkled old lady bedecked with far too many sequins had loaded them up when she saw them walking by. It’s delicious; the chocolate melts in an amazing way on Jared’s tongue. He turns back to flash a messy smile at Tom, who’s too busy thumbing at his phone to notice.

“What time is it?” Jared’s voice echoes in the stillness of the day, the utterly empty train station. He can’t help but rock a little in excitement, bounce on the balls of his feet.

Tom frowns, stabs another button. “Two minutes,” he says quietly, and finally slides the phone into his suit jacket. His fingers twitch without anything to hold

“Two minutes,” Jared repeats dizzily, almost drunk on the words. His hand rubs at the ticket in his pocket, tracing the edges.

Tom clears his throat. “Here it comes,” he says, and Jared jumps, follows Tom’s eyes to a growing cloud of smoke in the distance. Black smoke, Jared realizes, and wonders why that seems so odd.

“Jared.” Tom grabs the meat of Jared’s arm, pulls him away from the edge with a sharp jerk. His voice is taut and short. “Jared, listen.”

Jared looks at him, surprised to see the sudden and dull panic in Tom’s eyes. “What?”

“You gotta be careful, alright?” The platform starts to rumble underneath their feet, a buzzing vibration in Jared’s feet. “You’re going to be fine, but you gotta be careful. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

Jared laughs, hair flapping at his face with the rush of oncoming wind. “Having second thoughts?”

Tom looks a little insulted. He sighs, but Jared can’t hear whatever he mutters over the sudden arrival of his rumbling, growling train. An angry horn blares as the engine passes them up, slowing down and lurching to a stop at the far end of the station. Various hisses and screeches continue to pour out from reddish metal, like a thousand muffled screams. It’s noisy, and Jared has to resist the urge to clap his hands over his ears.

“Jared!” It’s loud enough that Tom has to shout. “Promise!”

“What the hell is your problem?” Jared’s interrupted by the opening of a door, not two feet away. He eyes it just long enough to catch a patch of gray, dirty carpet. “Yeah, okay? I’ll be careful, man. Brush my teeth and everything. I promise.”

Tom swats at his arm. “Go on, then! Get out of my hair.”

Jared flashes him a goofy grin, pushes hard enough at Tom’s shoulder to make him stumble.

Walking to the door, Jared gets his first proper look at the train. It’s a beast with more rust than metal, sweating oil that drips and steams on the white rocks below. The hand-up bar is splintered wood, so Jared legs it up without touching. He chances a quick look in the compartment, not sure what to expect, and only sees empty seats.

“Jared!”

The train’s already rumbling louder, inching forward and away. Jared has to lean out of the door to wave at Tom, who’s shouting something, hands cupped around his lips. The words are swallowed up, lost in sound.

“What?” Jared bellows.

Tom jogs forward, keeping up with the train until he runs out of platform. “Promise you won’t—!” he starts, but Jared can’t respond, can’t promise anything else. He rolls his eyes and waves one last time, reaching out to grab the handle of the door. The metal’s scorching -- hot enough that Jared has to shake away the heat from his hand when it slams shut.

“Weird,” is all he says.

He makes his way into the actual compartment, wondering if he’s supposed to sit anywhere in particular. The ticket’s no use: it’s still sealed shut within the envelope, but Jared fingers it anyway, eventually deciding that it shouldn’t matter. No one’s here; if someone does come, he’ll happily move.

Most of the seats are stained with a suspicious shade of red, which is worrisome, but Jared’s excited enough not to care. It reminds him of cherry sauce and sundaes, which reminds him of sugar, which reminds him of the delicious cookie on the platform. He picks a window seat and wonders what he’ll eat wherever it is he’s going to end up, how much different the cooking will be.

Perhaps they’ll have beer.

Rolling hills fly by, blurred together until Jared’s staring at a single mass of green. The window’s dirty, of course—marred by scratches—but Jared can still make out glimpses of the sea. Small cottages and trees.

It’s mesmerizing. Jared watches the passing landscape until he finds himself settling back in his seat, turning his head into the smelly cushion. Now that he’s here—seated and on his way—all the energy seeps out of his pores, leaving him more tired with every passing breath.

He falls asleep to rock of the train, his Heaven fading away in the distance.

\--

“’Scuse me.” An impatient voice barks in Jared’s ear, tugging him out of an awesome dream. “Excuse me.” Flailing wildly, Jared bonks his head his head on the window. He gets an eyeful of a dense, dark forest before he turns around, coming face-to-face with a very expensive-looking suit. It nearly shimmers with the promise of money. His eyes follow the sleek cut up to a woman’s scowling face.

“Could you move your bag?” she asks, words clipped. “It’s in the way.”

Idly wondering what sort of stick wedged its way into her tight ass, Jared nods quickly and reaches across the mini-table to grab his bag. His feet tingle as he pulls it off, dragging it over and standing up long enough to slap it on the overhead ledge. He looks around before he sits down again, wondering when the train had stopped to pick up passengers.

Most of the seats are occupied, filled with an odd mix of business-types and more normal, but twitchy individuals. Jared must stare too long: a man with shaggy hair and a nose ring catches his eye, licks his lips pointedly. He looks ravenous, and proceeds to ogle in the general direction of Jared’s nipples.

Jared blinks, hastily sits down. Makes sure to cross his arms over his chest.

“Sorry about that,” Jared says to the woman, just to speak. “About the bag.”

She’s already claimed her place across from him, now in the process of pulling out a strange-looking paper. Jared can’t see a single space of print: it’s just row after row of numbers. She looks up when he speaks, waving him off with a small hand.

He’s anxious to speak with someone, but his seat-neighbor seems decidedly non-conversational. Jared settles back in his seat, wondering where he should look. A quick glance confirms that Nose Ring has abandoned Jared’s nipples in order to salivate at a blonde two seats over; Jared uncrosses his arms with a sigh.  
With a cackle of static, a perky voice explodes on the loudspeaker: Hello! This is an automated message, kindly reminding you that we will be arriving at Circle Six in approximately nine minutes. Please keep your tickets handy, as an agent will be by to collect them shortly. And as always, out of respect for your fellow passengers, we ask that you keep any and all bloodletting to Car Seven. Thank you! We hope you have a most pleasant trip.  
Jared laughs at the joke, surprised not to hear a few more chuckles from anyone else. Wherever he’s going, they seem to have a sense of humor. This all bodes very well for his new job, and it settles comfortably in Jared’s stomach.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

He looks up at the woman, who’s regarding him intently over the rims of her glasses. With her tight bun, she looks like a particularly fierce librarian. One that guards her books with an iron fist and threats of bodily harm.

“Yeah,” Jared perks up, whipping out a grin. “Just got a new job. On my way now.”

A faint frown materializes on her forehead. “I see,” she says slowly, “Where are you headed?”

“Oh! Um,” Jared unconsciously pats his pockets for the ticket he’s not allowed to open. “The last stop. Wherever that happens to be.”

Head cocked, the stranger folds her newspaper with a precision born of diligent practice. The way she’s looking at him reminds Jared of his dog, Harley, and the expression he pulled out whenever Jared asked him to fetch a beer. Or, when Jared was feeling exceptionally lazy and hopeful, a pizza. There’s the same sense of confusion.

“Administration, then,” she says, more confident than her face suggests. It’s not a question. “You seem pleased.”

“I am.” Jared’s smile nearly cracks his face in two.

Her frown deepens. “Where are you from? Which circle?”

Jared has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, but he won’t let that stop him. As an excellent conversationalist, he is also an excellent bullshitter. Leaning in like he’s sharing a private joke, he mock-whispers, “The best one.”

Judging from his Earthly encounters with Botoxed women, Jared assumes she looks stunned.

She’s just opened her mouth when they’re interrupted by the arrival of a remarkably world-weary individual. Short and stocky with thinning hair, the man looks like the kind of person who would cheerfully throw himself into a meat-grinder. Heaving a sorry sigh, he holds out his hand. “Tickets.”

Jared hands his over with eager expectance, hoping he’ll get some kind of stub when all’s said and done. “Here you go.”

The man opens the envelope with a grimy knife and ruffles through the papers, glancing up now and again like he’s checking Jared’s face against a photo. Jared’s just about to start squirming in his seat, anxious, when the stranger nods. “Been awhile since we’ve had one of you,” he grunts, and pulls out a lighter. He holds it to the edge of Jared’s papers and flicks, igniting everything in bright flames.

The ticket’s tidily eaten up in seconds, nothing left behind. Jared can’t help but feel a little miffed; that would have made a fantastic souvenir. Sometime over the course of his Heavenly stay, Jared had developed a strong and burning fondness for scrapbooking.

Fierce Librarian hands over a smaller, more normal-looking ticket. It, too, is ignited into nothingness after a quick check.

As the ticket man turns to leave, Jared spots something red dripping down from his neck. “Oh my god!” he says when he realizes, “Sir! You. I think you’re bleeding.”

The man stops, reaches up to touch the wetness. He brings back his hand to study and looks, from what Jared can tell, unmoved. “It’s nothing.”

“But you’re bleeding, I’m su—”

The man heaves another one of his sighs. “You’re in Car Eight.”

“I don’t see wh—”

“Which means,” the man cuts him off, “that I just came from Car Seven. Do you listen to the announcements?” He doesn’t seem angry at Jared’s ignorance, exactly. Just resigned. “Of course you don’t,” he finishes, and turns to move on.

Jared’s not sure how to feel, exactly. There’s a small kind of unease gnawing at his stomach, but then the train’s slowing in jagged increments, and his attention is directed out the window and the station beyond.

It seems like any other train station, really. Jared presses his nose against the window like he’s five and quickly takes in the gleaming metal and the dirty floors. There are kiosks and attendants and hoards of people, all rushing back and forth with clipped strides. And in the center of it all, a glowing red “SIX” shines brightly, suspended from the ceiling.

It’s exciting and—best of all—different. Some of the people even look unhappy, and Jared would stare longer if he could, but the train’s already leaving, chugging out of the station and back into dark woods.

\--

He can’t believe he’s here.

The train leaves him behind, inching backwards out of the station with its usual groans and hisses. The rest of the passengers have already scattered—hopping on buses, dashing out into the rain—and Jared’s left to creep around the station in peace.

It’s a bit run-down, truth be told. Small and simple. Shitty, flickering lighting bounces off warped wood and dirty advertisements for strip clubs and toothpaste. Jared really couldn’t ask for anything better: every inch of the depot is blessedly different than his own.

The bus ticket is warm from the heat of his hand. It’s a bit hard to read the print, but he manages to find the number and heads over to what he hopes is a timetable. There are no buses outside.

Well, this is peculiar.

The timetable he finds is singed at the corners. Jared runs a nail through the grime and rubs his fingers together, frowning at the consistency. It flakes, ash-like. When he tries to find his bus number, he’s a bit miffed to find that it’s been crossed out. Thick grime obscures the times, unwilling to be buffed away.

Jared’s eyes scan around the room, looking for help. An information booth. A pamphlet.

He’s a bit startled when he spots an old man on a stool in the corner, faded blue jean cap pulled low over his ears. The same ashy soot on the timetable sits in drifting piles on the man’s shoulders. Aged, gnarled hands clutch a rusted knife, absently whittling away at a piece of blackened wood. Heaps of wood chips rest near his feet. Jared chances another look at the man’s hands and worriedly notes that for all the carving, the black block remains unchanged.

Odd.

Jared would really rather avoid disturbing him, but he takes another look back at the useless timetable and convinces himself he has no other option.

“Excuse me,” says Jared politely.

More shavings flutter to the floor.

“Excuse me,” Jared speaks up, very conscious of the way his voice echoes in the small space. He feels like an ass, but he’s already a bit concerned about being late, and he has no idea what to do. “I just need a little help.”

The man continues to carve, but Jared senses the slightest pause in his movements. A small cascade of dust floats from the blue cap, disturbed by a small tick in the man’s neck. He’s listening.

Encouraged, Jared moves a little closer. He pitches his voice low, tries to shrink the size of his shoulders.

“Could you tell me when the next 82 bus will be here? Where I wait for it, maybe?” asks Jared, before frowning and consulting his note, “I have to meet someone at the statue of Nergel the Damned.”

“You’re not going to find your bus.” The old man wheezes, voice low and rumbly.

“Oh.” Another look outside at the horrible weather reminds Jared that he doesn’t have an umbrella. “Is there a different one I could take? Or even—I’d walk.” Unhappy at the thought, he still manages to pull out Tom’s map for some quick consulting. “Is it hard to find?”

More wheezing. “Can’t help you, son.”

A small pang of annoyance blooms behind Jared’s eyes. He glances another look at his watch: twenty minutes before he’ll be late. Twenty minutes before he’ll make a bad impression and be carted back to the depot. Preemptively fired. “The time table’s missing my bus number. And the time.” A quick peek out the window confirms that there’s no bus in sight, no one else he can ask. “It’s just—I think I’ll be late,” he says helplessly, and rubs at his stomach. “And I’m hungry.”

Dust falls like dirty snow from the man’s shoulders as they twitch. Lifting up his head, he smiles at Jared with broken yellow teeth. “What did you expect to find when you hopped on the train to Hell?”

At some point in the conversation, Jared had angled his body towards the door. He turns around, now, and blinks at the man. Because he heard wrong. “Excuse me?”

“I said, what did you expect to find in Hell? Roses?” Pained chuckles echo in the room. “An information booth? Friendly advice?” He shakes his head, smiling a decayed smile. His shoulders still shake in soundless laughter.

Horrible connections are forming in Jared’s mind. Tom’s behavior. The job no one wanted. The state of the train. The fucking circles.

Oh god.

“Look at the sign if you don’t believe me.”

Just like the other stations, a sign hangs from the ceiling. Jared’s steps are weighted as he moves to look closer. He’d seen it when he’d come in, noted the “Last Stop” in bold letters with a smile because wasn’t that just fucking cute? He certainly hadn’t noticed the small scribbles underneath.

“The Last Stop.” Jared pauses to wet his dry lips, then continues to read out loud. “Otherwise recognized as the wretched Tenth Circle, The Last Stop is an official affiliate of Abaddon, Gehenna, Hades, the Infernal Regions, the Inferno, the Lower and Nether Worlds, Perdition, The Pit, Place of Torment, and Purgatory.” And even smaller, underneath, and in parenthesis: “Hell.”

Jared was sent to work in fucking Hell.

“Holy fuck.” Jared grabs at his hair, voice shrill. “Holy—”

“Ain’t much holy here, son.” The man cackles, picking up his block and knife.

He’s still laughing when Jared panics, as he desperately searches for a telephone. Tom said he could call, couldn’t he? There was a number. All of this – the train, the job, the fucking destination -- is all just a nasty joke. A really hellish and nasty joke.

He spins around in the small space – flailing – until he spies a familiar shape beyond the depot doors. There’s a telephone booth on the other side of the street, outlined by a dim light.

He doesn’t stop to say goodbye. The doors open with a hard smack, flinging back against the dirty wood of the depot. There are no buses or cars in sight, and Jared’s immediately soaked in the downpour. Lightning flashes somewhere in the distance, bright enough for Jared to find his way.

The rumble of the thunder almost sounds like a laugh.

\--

Sandy picks up on the first ring.

The reception, of course, is terrible. Not that Jared’s surprised.

“Hello! This is Sandra, I hope you’re having an absolutely wonderful day. Eden Reality would love to make your day even better if we could, so what can I do to help you?” The greeting is rote and familiar and should sound comforting, but all Jared can think of is the way the sunlight is undoubtedly streaming through the windows in the office, warming his safe desk and his safe pens and the fucking copier, while Jared’s standing in rain that itches his skin.

“Hey, Sandy,” he says carefully.

“Oh!” She sounds rattled and Jared can hear her cup of pens clicking together as they fall against the floor. “Jared, um. Hi. I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon. Are…are things going well with your new job?”

“Tom.” He bites out instead of answering, “I need to speak with Tom.” Jared keeps his rage to a dull roar as best he can. It’s not Sandy’s fault that he’s standing in acid rain, but Jared has to dig his fingers into the scorched plastic of the telephone box all the same. It crumbles a little under the pressure.

“Sure! Sure, Jared. No problem. Tom. Right, yeah.”

There’s a soft, rubbing noise in Jared’s ear as Sandy sets the phone down. He can hear her asking for Tom, but the exact words are muffled and unclear, like he’s listening through felt. It’s all ripped away when Tom’s voice booms across the line.

“Jared!” And it might be Jared’s imagination, but Tom’s enthusiasm rings false. “My man, how are thin—”

Jared cuts him off. “To be honest,” he manages, voice taut, “things are pretty shitty. Do you know why things are so shit-tastic?”

A pause. “Why are things shit-tastic, Jared?”

“Because I’m in Hell, Tom!” Jared feels a bit of the hysteria he’d managed to keep hidden so far bubble to the surface. His voice takes on a high, frantic tone. “What, was this not considered important enough to tell me, Tom? Classified information, Tom? ‘Oh, hey Jared. Take this job. All traveling, expenses paid. See some sights! Meet new people! Oh, by the way, it’s in Hell!”

The entire side piece of the phone cover crumples to the ground.

“I understand that you’re feeling a little overwhelmed,” Tom tries, placating, “Try taking some deep breaths. Like yoga. Remember yoga, Jared?”

“Fuck overwhelmed,” Jared says strongly, “Fuck it like a two dollar whore. I’m way past overwhelmed, Tom. Do you wanna know why? Because I’m in He—“

“Hell, yes. Land of fire and brimstone. I do understand where you’ve gone, Jared, and you should try to stay calm.”

“Hell!” Jared shouts again, for emphasis. Because perhaps he has not been clear.

Tom sighs tiredly. “It’s not that long of a gig, Jay. Be over before you know it. You’re doing us a huge favor, buddy, don’t think we don’t know. Look—,” Jared can hear the faintest rustling of papers, “—your guide is supposed to meet you by the statue of Nergel the Damned, right? It should be time. Just go, do the meet and greet, and you know. Follow him around for a bit.”

“A bit?” Jared staggers a little under the possibility that his stay could extend for a very, very long time. A small eternity of perpetually soggy shoes and itchy skin. “How long is ‘a bit,’ exactly?”

Tom’s voice turns curt. “A small amount of time. Just do what we talked about, okay? Make sure things are legit, avoid their tequila, and let us know about any suspicious activity.”

“Tom,” Jared says dryly, hanging onto the edge of his sanity, “It’s Hell. By definition, there’s going to be a lot of suspicious activity. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

A sigh. “Do your best.” Jared can hear a sudden flurry of activity on the line—people talking, laughing, and Tom’s ‘just a moment, please’ is heavy with relief. His voice returns, dismissive and loud in Jared’s ear. “Call us anytime, Jared. We’re here to help.”

“But—”

“Anytime,” Tom reminds. “Except not now.”

“Tom!”

“Good luck, Jared.”

And that’s that. Jared stands in the rain, letting it run off his coat, soak his shoes. The echo of Tom’s voice fades away until he’s left with the distant rumbling of howling dogs and the pattering rain. He edges further into the booth without thought, eye catching on something liquid red and sinister near his feet. Almost unwillingly, Jared’s eyes follow the trail—burgundy at some points, pink at others when it mixes with the rain—until he spies a pair of feet sticking out at an odd angle from the tall grass.

He stares back at the peeling black plastic of the phone in his hand and feels small.

\--

The man in the grass, whoever he was, doesn’t move when Jared plucks up enough courage to check. It seems unfitting to leave someone like that, Hell or no, but there’s not much to be done. There’s no shelter or dry place in sight. Jared secretly suspects he’s not meant to help, but he wipes away the mud from the man’s cheeks with his ruined jacket, all the same.

“Sorry,” he mutters, before walking away.

The road is slick with wet. Jared does his best to avoid stepping on the darker, more sinister patches until he feels like he’s dancing some kind of useless jig. Every inch of clothing clings to him in new and uncomfortable ways, so he gives up and makes his way further away from the depot, following his soggy map as he goes.

Rounding the final bend, he’s mildly pleased to see a hulking statue in the near-distance. Silently thanking all his forced years in the Boy Scouts, he’s even happier to see a human-ish figure pacing between the statue and a car.

His guide.

The rain lets up a little, spurring him forward faster. When he’s close enough, Jared throws up a hand in greeting and pastes on a half-hearted smile for his new coworker. His new demon coworker. Who he’s supposed to follow.

Jesus.

He knows he’s late, but Jared’s not quite expecting the level of wrath he sees when he stops in front of a ridiculously pretty guy. Despite the umbrella, the stranger’s dress shirt and pants are flecked with wet. Green eyes glare up at him and something niggles at the back of Jared’s brain, but he can’t quite pin it down.

He doesn’t say a word; Jared shuffles on his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Jared blurts before anything else, and cringes. He sounds like a four-year-old cookie-thief, apologizing to his mother. But he has to say something—the guy looks like he’s ready to gnaw at Jared’s kneecaps. “I think the train was on time, but the bus was, you know. I guess I missed it? And I would have been here sooner but I had to make a phone call and I really didn’t know wh—”

“You had to make a phone call.” Green Eyes deadpans.

Jared snaps his teeth shut. He brings up a hand to grab at the back of his wet neck, pulling at the muscles. He feels like a human raindrop and has a sudden, horrible realization that he must look ridiculous. His hair hangs in clumps, curling at his ears and tickling his cheeks. His jeans and t-shirt are darkened, clingy. Although it wouldn’t really matter: he’d still look completely unprofessional next to the guy’s fitted shirt and dress pants. Jared brings his shoulders up, trying to shrink.

“Yes?” He swallows extra spit. “I—yes. A phone call.”

Jared can tell the man’s struggling to stay calm; his knuckles are white on the umbrella, clenching. “I see,” he says, voice dead. “You didn’t think it could wait? Seeing as how you’re two hours late?”

Part of Jared wonders how worried he should be that he’s pissed off a demon, but suddenly he’s too shocked to care. “Two hours?” he says, incredulous. “I know I’m late, man, but there’s no way. I set it to the time in the depot, it said it wa—”

The man blows out an impatient breath. “Do yourself a favor and don’t trust the clocks. It’ll save me a lot of fucking heartache.”

Jared feels a little indignant, despite himself. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“Jesus.” For a second, he almost sounds pitying. “Did they not tell you anything?” The man shakes his head and turns his back, heading towards an old, but well-kept Chevy truck. He opens up the passenger door and reaches inside, starts to fumble around.

“Not really,” Jared says glumly, following.

Still searching for something, the guy barks out an unhappy laugh. “I guess that’s how you were lucky enough to land the job.”

“I didn’t even know!” Jared can’t help himself; he wails a little. “I just—I hated where I was, what I was doing. I had to get out; it felt like I was fucking dying all over again and Tom offered me a job, said I could do it, and I jumped. I didn’t even ask what I’d be doing, I just took it, I. I took it and I didn’t even know, just got on the train and then I’m in fucking Hell and it’s raining, and I don’t have an umbrella and you’re pissed at me and I don’t even know your name. And I’m sorry.”

He finishes, breathing heavier than before, and raises his eyes to see the demon taking him in, looking over his shabby clothes with a raised eyebrow.

“You finished?”

Jared kind of wants to crawl under a rock, devise a way to make the last two minutes disappear. “Yeah,” he says, defeated. “I’m finished.”

“Great.” The guy tosses him a towel, jabs a finger in Jared’s direction. “Wrap that around your ass and get in. We’re already late for court.”

Jared nods miserably, does as he’s told. He wants to protest that it won’t even matter – the towel will be soaked in seconds – but he keeps his mouth shut and climbs in, shutting the door behind him.

The guy’s in the driver’s seat a second later, turns the ignition. Nothing’s playing on the radio, but he fiddles at the dials anyway, mouth set in a frown.

“Look,” he starts, and Jared glances over, not sure what to do with his hands. The guy seems less pissed, but that’s like saying Jared’s a little tall. It doesn’t do much to calm Jared’s new nerves. “Look, I.” A short sigh. “My name’s Jensen.”

Jared blinks a little in surprise, but he sticks with what’s safe and nods. “Jared,” he says.

“Well, Jared.” Jared’s eyes widen a little when Jensen conjures up a wicked grin. “Welcome to Hell.”

\--

Jensen drives fast and reckless. Just like everyone else.

Jared very quickly learns that the stoplights are irrelevant; the other motorists clearly find them a nuisance as well as optional, which means terrible things for Jared’s thighs. He’s been clutching at them ever since Jensen took off, speeding down a series of unlit roads without lanes.

Jared almost doesn’t want to ask, but, “Where are we going, again?”

“Courthouse,” Jensen says, and Jared’s too focused on breathing deep, normal breaths to do much more than nod distractedly. “I’ve got a trial. Well, I had a trial. It started fifteen minutes ago.”

Asking questions is his new strategy for distraction. “What are you on trial for?” he gets out, intentionally level-voiced, and tries not to think about the fact that he’s not only sitting with a demon, but a demon criminal. Fuck knows what someone in Hell has to do to be considered evil enough for trial.

At least Jared can’t die again. It’s odd that he’s come to find that comforting.

“Damn.” Jared looks over long enough to see Jensen’s headshake. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

Jared sighs, dejected. He’d protest, but there’s really no point. “Not really. At least not about Hell. Or you.”

“Fuck me.” Jared hears Jensen curse under his breath. “Alright, first off? I’m not the one on trial, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“’Course not,” Jared says quickly, and barely holds back a scream when a white Range Rover comes within two inches of crashing into his side. He couldn’t see the driver’s pores, but he could see the red of her nail polish. As she was applying it. On her toes. “Oh my g—”

“I’m a Death Trial lawyer,” Jensen says, completely unfazed. He’s too busy clutching his heart, but Jared can hear the new smile in Jensen’s voice. At least someone finds this whole experience fucking funny. “I make sure people end up where they should: collect the wicked, help add new citizens to our lovely town.”

Looking at the road only spells trouble. Jared decides on a newer, better strategy: staring at Jensen. Jared had been a little too distracted to fully appreciate Jensen’s face before, but sitting next to the man, there’s no denying that he’s fucking attractive. This close, Jared can see the long eyelashes, his pouty lips. His goddamn freckles. Considering the circumstances, Jared really shouldn’t find him hot. But it’s a little too late.

Goddammit.

Torn between cursing the situation and feeling somewhat lucky, Jared convinces himself he can still hate Jensen. Pretty or not, the guy’s a dick. And a fucking demon. A really fucking gorgeous demon.

“You look like you’re gonna barf in my car.” Jensen interrupts his thoughts, shoves at Jared’s shoulder with a firm hand. “You gonna barf in my car?”

Jared clears his throat, thinks about it. “I’ll let you know.”

Jensen grouses a little, but then mumbles, “Roll down your window a little.” And just when Jared considers pointing out the weather, Jensen speaks up again. “I don’t care about the rain, I care about whether or not you puke in my car. A little water’s not going to hurt anything. Go ahead.”

Fresh air really does sound nice, so Jared nods his assent and cranks his window down. Just a little. A fine spray of mist hits him in the face, but it almost feels refreshing.

“Thanks,” he groans pitifully, and slumps.

Jensen doesn’t say anything, but this also means he doesn’t bitch, which Jared considers an improvement. With his nose half-way out the window, he can’t distract himself with Jensen, but he can admire the other cars. When they’re far away.

Silence rages on, but Jared finds himself relaxing a little more with each mile. Either the traffic’s died down, or Jensen’s taken pity on him, because they have less and less close-calls. It’s nice to be in a car again, nice to see the road slip away and feel the rumble of an engine.

“This is cool,” he decides to share.

“Five minutes ago you were freaking out and now you’ve decided this is cool?”

“I’m still fucking freaked out,” Jared admits, but he’s proud that his voice stays steady. “This is…pretty much the last place I thought I’d be today, but cars, you know? I was just remembering how cool they are.”

“There’s no cars in Heaven?” Jensen tries to hide it, but Jared can tell he’s mildly curious. “At all?”

Jared shakes his head sadly. “Not in mine, anyway. Fucking sucks.”

“Huh,” Jensen says, and that’s when Jared realizes they’ve slowed down. “Guess the Big Boss is fearful of fuel-emissions.”

Jared’s surprised to hear himself laugh. “Guess so.”

Jensen manages a small, minute twitch of his lips. It’s rather pitiful, but it’s something. The car slows down even more, and Jared turns his head back to the front, taking in the metal buildings and parking meters. He’d spent a decent amount of time exploring his Heaven, but he walked everywhere. Hell – or this Hell, at least – must be enormous. Having cars must expand the territory.

“C’mon,” Jensen says, throwing the car into park. “We gotta book it. Heaven’s attorney is gonna have my fucking balls.”

Another twinge of guilt stabs at him, but Jared nods and slides out of his door as quickly as he can. Happily, he notes that the rain has stopped. He thinks about asking if he has time to change, but one look at Jensen’s harried face pushes the question out of his mind. However long he’s here, he’ll suffer through it.

He joins Jensen on the sidewalk, looks up at the gray building while Jensen curses and fumbles through random junk in his ash-tray. As Jensen’s swears and threats of bodily harm grow louder, Jared notices the empty, blinking meter. He can guess where this is going. For all the talk about profits and money-making in Heaven, he’d never actually seen tangible currency; he hasn’t touched any since dying. It’s all for show, but Jared preemptively starts patting his pockets, trying to cut the upcoming question off at the pass.

Growling, Jensen turns to Jared. “You got any quarters?”

“I—”

“Of course you don’t,” Jensen snaps, and casts his eyes around the surrounding cars. Jared almost feels obliged to protest the unfairness, but then Jensen’s gone, walking over to a nearby Hummer.

Jared scrunches his eyebrows, confused as to where this is going, when Jensen reaches into the rolled-down window and unlocks the door. Jared’s wide eyes immediately go to the random people walking down the street, but if they see what Jensen’s doing, they certainly don’t care. Looks like stealing’s par for the course.

“A-ha!” Jensen emerges from the Hummer triumphant, grinning at his handful of quarters. “Fucking jackpot.” He jogs back over to Jared and feeds the meter. He immediately turns his head to look at Jared, almost like he’s eager to judge his reaction.

Jared tries not to look too shocked. He’s not sure he pulls it off.

“Sooner or later?” Jensen smiles ruefully, and reaches back into the car to grab a briefcase. “You embrace the lifestyle.”

Jared can only imagine.

\--

Inside the building, the hallways are dark and poorly lit. Not that Jared’s surprised. All things considered, he figures it could be worse. A couple hours in Hell and he’s yet to see a pitchfork, or hear the wailing of the damned. Comparatively, a typical, shitty office building is fairly manageable. He follows the snap of Jensen’s shoes on the concrete as they walk through random doorways and up a series of steps. Jared’s feet squelch in his socks as he keeps up the pace.

Finally, Jensen stops in front of two ornate wooden doors. At least 20 feet tall, they are elegant and imposing; words in languages Jared can’t even begin to name shine from every inch, expertly carved. Half-expecting Jensen to slap his hand away, Jared lifts up a finger to trace the hills and valleys of the letters.

Jensen’s busy rustling through his briefcase, but he stops long enough to share a knowing nod with Jared. “They’re impressive,” he says, and he nearly sounds pleased.

Jared smiles, pleased himself. “What do I—?” Now that they’re here, he realizes he really has no idea what’s going on. “It’s cool if I come in with you?”

A bit of darkness settles between Jensen’s eyebrows. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” he growls, “Babysit me?” And any kind of points Jared might have won with door-respect vanish, just like that.

“I’m not—” Jared bites his tongue. There’s no point in arguing; of all people, he got paired with a fucking lawyer. He sighs. “You don’t have to believe me, but I am sorry. Now am I supposed to come in or not?”

Jensen heaves a world weary sigh, but he does seem to rein himself in. “Yeah,” he mumbles, pausing to rub his face, “Your boss would want you to. As a celestial, you’re pretty much cleared to go anywhere.”

An all-access pass, then. Jared’s not ready to ruffle his non-existent feathers, but he does feel a little proud.

“You can congratulate yourself later,” says Jensen, and Jared immediately feels another stab of guilt, tinged with annoyance. This guy is fucking finicky. “Ready to go?”

Looks like he doesn’t have a choice. Jared nods, gathers up confidence he’s not really sure he feels. “Ready.”

Jensen sighs, takes one minute to straighten his tie. And then he turns the knob.

\--

For such a kick-ass entrance, Jared can’t help but think the rest of the room is fairly lame. The walls are dark, paneled in some kind of stained wood, and while it’s brighter than the hallways, the hanging candelabras barely glow. He follows Jensen to an aged but noble table littered with eons of nicks, and keeps looking as he sits down. The only other bit of furniture is an identical table facing theirs, and what Jared can only describe as a mailbox at the front of the room. No place for a judge. No place for witnesses.

Jared doesn’t have much personal experience to work with, but he manages to decide this is not a regular court.

At their arrival, a blonde woman in the corner turns around. She’s been chattering on her cell-phone, but she clicks it off as they settle at the table. Her heels click on the wood as she marches over, full smile in place.

“Lovely to see you, Jensen!” She beams, setting down her own briefcase on the other table. Regardless of poor lighting, her eyes sparkle. “Happy you could make it.”

Jensen’s already scowling, mouth twisted in something painful. “Kristen,” he gets out, “Don’t pull that. I had to get—”

“It’s my fault,” Jared spits out, and the woman—Kristen—turns to him, finally acknowledging his presence. He can feel Jensen at his side, tensing up. “It’s my fault he’s late. I just got here, I was lost. He had to wait for me, so it’s—yeah. Don’t blame him.”

“Are you—?” She squints a little, takes in Jared’s wet-spotted shirt and darkened jeans. He squirms. “You’re a celestial, aren’t you?”

“Um.” He’s never really thought of himself like that, but, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“What a wonderful surprise!” If possible, her smile stretches even further. Her happiness certainly sounds genuine, but something about it irks Jared nevertheless. It reminds him of his Heaven in a horrible way. Tutting, Kristen turns away from Jared, hands on her hips. “Jensen! Why didn’t you say something?”

Busy organizing a shelf of papers and folders on the table, Jensen doesn’t look up. “I tried to say something,” he mutters, “but I was fucking inter—”

“No matter!” Kristen chirps, and pulls out a thin thermos and cup from a different bag. She chatters as she pours, and Jared has to wonder if she’s laced her coffee. “What do we have but time? Death does have its advantages. Would you like a drink, Jared?”

Jared eyes the thermos with something akin to fear. “No, thanks.”

“Can we get started, please?” Jared looks over to Jensen, surprised to see the glasses perched on his nose. Jared can’t help himself; he smiles a small and goofy smile. They’re fucking adorable. Jensen catches him looking and shifts in his seat, clears his throat.

“We should get started,” Kristen says, like Jensen never spoke. She sits down and pulls out a folder, flipping it open to the first page. Jensen sighs and does the same. “Henry Anderson.”

Jensen continues on, “48. Mechanic. Sheridan, Wyoming. Death by—” He pulls the paper closer to his nose, shakes his head when he’s sure. “Death by asphyxiation. He choked on pages from the Bible.”

Jared coughs wildly.

Kristen shoots him a sharp glare, but Jensen’s lip twitches. Jared decides his new goal should be to cause more Jensen lip-twitches. Perhaps even a smile.

“Total hellish acts: 1,309,” Jensen says, marking something with a pen. He must hear the clogs turning in Jared’s head, because he leans over, whispers, “That’s really nothing remarkable.”

“Heavenly acts: 32,309,” Kristen says primly. “Also, I would like to note that he saved a Boston Terrier from drowning in 1996. He donated to over 27 charities, and made excellent blueberry pie.”

“He also loved Nickelback and used fake butter.” Jensen counters, smacking his lips a little in disgust. “Take him.”

Kristen still manages to smile, but only just. She signs off at the bottom of a sheet before handing it off to Jensen, who does the same. “He’ll be a lovely addition,” she remarks, taking back the paper.

Jensen ignores her, already moving on. “Ken Hannibal. 89. Retired accountant. Chicago, Illinois.” He scans the paper a little more before he shakes his head, furiously underlines a certain line. “Dude’s one of ours.”

Kristen’s much less attractive when her eyes are bugging out of her head. “He died saving someone from a mugging, Jensen.”

Jensen’s eyes darken. “And that completely erases a lifetime of wickedness? My total’s over 80k.”

“That may be,” Kristen allows grudgingly. Jared studies her nail polish as she taps at a certain line, drawing ammo. “Page 12, in bold: he repented for his actions.”

Jensen’s jaw nearly hits the table. “He sat in mass and daydreamed about his neighbor’s kid.”

“She was a sweet girl! He never thou—”

“She was fucking twelve.” Jensen spits. “How can you even—?” His elbows bounce off of Jared’s own as he scrambles through the pages, flustered. “Page 43, 1966. Rear-ends a taxi, speeds away.”

“He had no money! No one was hu—”

“Page 54, 1983 to 1985. Skimmed money from the books. Page 59, 1992. Cheated on his wife with her sister. Page 60, 1994. Leaves out rat poison, conveniently forgets that he has a dog. On what fucking grounds are you basing your argument?”

Jared can’t say he’s shocked that Jensen takes his job seriously. He’s kind of thankful for it, actually, even if the fire behind Jensen’s eyes is a little disarming. It’s twelve kinds of surreal that he’s sitting here, privy to after-life politics, but at least it exists. At least somewhere, at some time, someone fought for him.

It’s comforting. Just like it’s terrifying.

“Jensen,” Kristen takes a drag of her coffee, rubs at her temple with her other hand. She speaks softer than before, with most of her former indignation absent. For the first time, she sounds human. “We go through this every time. Before he died, Ken honestly believed he was a good man.” Jensen bristles at that, but she raises a small hand before he can speak, pleading. “I’m not saying he didn’t make mistakes. I’m not saying he…he wasn’t an asshole to the mailman, or that he didn’t entertain terrible thoughts. But it’s about more than action, Jensen. It’s about reason.”

Next to him, Jensen’s body snaps tight. Jared can hear the controlled labor of his breathing, moves his head just enough to see Jensen clutching at his pen.

Kristen looks uncomfortable, but she makes herself continue. “Ken took money from the company to pay off his daughter’s loans. He cheated on his wife after twenty years of marriage because they had an unhappy marriage and he was wrong to do it, but it doesn’t mean he should go to Hell. He was forgetful and largely bitter and made countless mistakes, but—” She raises her hands helplessly, lets them flop back onto the table. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re wrong.”

Jared’s not sure what to do in the quiet. There’s no distraction: no clicking clocks, no tap of a pen. Jensen’s gone silent, and Jared’s extremely conscious that he’ll be leaving with Jensen when this is finished. Leaving with Jensen and his mood.

He holds his breath.

When he finally speaks, Jensen’s voice is thin and soft. Measured. “There’s only so many times you can push intent on me, Kristen, before I lose my fucking mind.”

To her credit, Kristen doesn’t back away. Not a flinch. “Okay,” she says calmly. “What does that mean for Ken?”

“That you can have Ken, even though you shouldn’t.” Jared’s a bit surprised that Jensen sounds relatively calm about it. “But next time? The next Ken? I’m calling for Reanimation. We’re gonna wake the fucker up and see what he thinks from his own goddamn mouth. Let him decide.”

Kristen seems fairly unhappy about the possibility. “There’s a reason we have our jobs, Jensen,” she says, and it’s strangely weighted. She looks at Jensen, tries her best to catch his eye. “People don’t know what’s best for them, especially when it comes to where they should be. You of all people should know that.”

Jared really doesn’t know what to make of that, but it’s quiet again. Awkward creeps in on the edges, and Jared wonders, not for the first time, what he’s supposed to do. How he’s supposed to do his job. What his job even is.

Finally, Jensen sucks in a breath. Breathes it out hard. “I need a fucking beer.”

\--

The rest of the trials finish without much fanfare. Kristen easily concedes on a few murderers, a devil-worshipping maritime lawyer, and a teenager that honestly wanted nothing to do with God. There’s paper signing and hostile goodbyes before Jensen snatches his briefcase and nearly launches himself out of the room.

Jared looks after him, sighs. He’s achy when he stands up, muscles happy to finally move and stretch. It’s been hours.

“Have fun!” Kristen calls to him when he’s nearly out the door. “Don’t let him scare you, Jared.”

Jared smiles a small smile at her, throws up a hand in goodbye.

Despite his speedy exit, Jensen’s waiting for him at the end of the hall. His fingers are twitching, rubbing at each other, the same movement Jared’s old friends pulled whenever they wanted a cigarette. He’s already loosened his tie, and Jared tries to ignore the little pleased punch to his gut.

They make their way out of the maze, back out into a chilly night. Hell’s city rumbles all around, restless like something alive. It must be rather late, but the sidewalks are busier than before: Jared has to work hard to avoid being hit by power-walkers and elbows as he follows Jensen to the truck. He’s almost made it when a pert businesswoman knocks into him with her shoulder, doesn’t bother to apologize when he trips.

Jared stares at her, mouth open, but he knows he shouldn’t be surprised. Demons don’t seem big on apologizes.

He slides into the car.

They sit in silence in the cabin. Jared makes sure his bag is still in the back (it is), checks the wet-level of his clothes (finally, blissfully dry), and fervently wishes that the radio worked. Or that he knew what to say.

“I wasn’t kidding about that beer.”

Jared jerks, turns to look at Jensen. He’s already staring back at Jared, eyes illuminated by the flickering red of the streetlamps. His face is hard to read in the light, but Jared likes to imagine he looks calmer. Less ready to strangle innocent creatures.

“Sound good?”

No, Jared amends, he’s definitely calmer. Hesitant, almost. Jared’s not sure to do with himself without the asshole vibes; he only manages a nod. Jensen keeps staring at him, though, and he feels like he should say something.

“Yeah,” he finally gets out, voice cracking for no reason at all. He clears at his throat as Jensen looks on, obviously a little bemused. Jesus. “Sounds good.”

\--

 

The bar Jensen takes him to is a run-down, seedy little shack nestled between an imposing warehouse and an all-night diner. It’s piecemeal—smoke floating away from the roof, rotten wood hammered around the doors, dressed-down patrons shuffling in and out.

It looks completely, utterly alive.

Jared tries to keep the wonder out of his face as he follows Jensen inside, but he doesn’t know if he can stop staring. His eyes flick from one thing to the next: the dirty tables, the dozens of televisions broadcasting brutal sports and extremely odd commercials, the cheering, drunken clients, the sweating, golden beer.

Alcohol.

Moaning pitifully, Jared has to restrain himself from making grabby hands at the wall of liquor behind the bar. “You have draft,” he whines, and tries to remember the last time he’s had a real drink. He’s pretty sure it was with Chad in some over-priced club, back in the land of the living. Chad had left him in less than half an hour to bond with twins and Jared had been left alone. Him and his Guinness.

They’re still making their way to the back, but Jensen turns his head around. Flashes a small, disbelieving smile that Jared’s shocked to see. “No way. Don’t tell me you don’t have beer.”

Torn between embarrassment and equal disbelief, Jared shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, shamed. “No beer.”

“No beer and no cars?” Jared nearly runs into Jensen when he stops, slides into an empty booth. He grabs at a few leftover napkins, starts wiping at the table. “What kind of Heaven is that?”

“A lame one,” Jared says, and absently wonders if there’s any kind of Heavenly Big Brother down in Hell keeping tabs on reputation. Is he going to get booted for talking trash? “There are other things,” he adds quickly, trying to keep it mysterious. “Other cool things, but yeah. I missed this. Haven’t had a drink since I died.”

Something flickers in Jensen’s eye. Something wicked. Jared finds it a little worrisome, the way he grins: it suggests all kinds of things. Things like cow-tipping and drugstore robbery. “Well, then,” Jensen says, “As your guide to all things demonic and immoral, I consider it my duty to get you shitfaced. Stay here.”

Jared nods, a bit dazed. The idea of getting drunk with Jensen spells out all kinds of bad things, but he’s a bit powerless to say no. This new out-of-court Jensen is showing all the signs of being a good guy, and despite all the warning bells flashing in his mind, Jared purposefully tries to forget where he is.

Jared bites his lip. He can’t remember if he’s a chatty drunk.

\--

Jared is a very chatty drunk.

By the sixth beer, he’s pretty much spilled his whole life story. Where he grew up, that stupid wig-incident in kindergarten, his slight obsession with stamps in middle school, the apple trees in Heaven, his favorite lube, the whole she-bang. He’s pretty much a no-secrets kind of guy to begin with, but alcohol obliterates any and all filters he manages to maintain on a regular basis.

He does manage to gloss over the means of his death.

Jared’s practically sprawling in the booth, limbs all heavy and limp where he puts them. Not really knowing the guy, Jared can’t tell how drunk Jensen is, but his cheeks are flushed and gorgeous, plumping up a little when he grins at Jared’s stories. The grins are nice. They only encourage more storytelling because Jared’s decided that he’s a bit fond of this new non-asshole Jensen, the one that grins. He hasn’t said much, but Jared’s more than capable of filling up the silence. Desperately trying to be sneaky, he fumbles for the pitcher and peeks up at Jensen while he tops off his glass.

“Thinking big thoughts there,” Jensen remarks, calling him out. “I can tell.”

Jared blearily looks up from his drink, feigns confusion. “What?”

“You keep staring at my throat.”

Guilty as charged, but drunken Jared refuses to feel sorry. It’s a nice fucking neck. “It’s a nice fucking neck,” he shrugs, not the least bit ashamed. Alcohol has a lovely way of tampering down embarrassment.

Jensen raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t try to strangle Jared with his tie, so Jared considers it a win. Jensen’s looser now, definitely, but he’s not drunk enough to lose all of his containment. He’s still sitting up straight.

“Speak out loud, dude.” Jensen takes a long pull of his beer, setting down an empty glass. “Enough with the creepy staring.”

“It’s nothing,” Jared smiles sloppily, shifting in his seat. He debates lying, but eventually settles on the truth. “Nothing, just—you’re definitely less of an asshole when you aren’t in court. Or going to court, I guess.”

“I hate my job,” Jensen says, blunt. He pauses, lifts up a finger to scratch distractedly at his eyebrow. “You gonna write that on my report?” There’s a small smirk on his face, but he sounds like he’s only half-joking.

“Nah, man. You’re good at your job.” Jared brushes it off, waving it away with a flick of his wrist. “You were fucking terrifying, but it kind of makes sense. They need people like you.”

“Shouldn’t you be saying the opposite? Considering what team you play for?”

Before he can stop it, a healthy amount of beer spews out of Jared’s nose. He falls into a coughing fit, whacking at his chest and fumbling around for a napkin.

Jesus.

“That answers that question, then.” Jared looks up, horrified, but Jensen only offers him a small and wicked grin. “Relax. It’s not like I didn’t know before. You are the most obvious gay I’ve ever met.”

“Oh.” Jared’s not sure what to say, but he absently pats at his chest while his heart calms down. “Well, uh. So there’s that.”

“There’s that,” Jensen says, and lowers his eyes, staring hard at the table. His mouth twists a little. He’s thinking, or at least gearing up to say something, and suddenly, Jared regains a bit of his nervousness. Alcohol or not, he’s still in Hell. This is still his first day on the job, and he can’t believe he managed to forget. He can’t believe he feels so calm.

Jared takes a moment to collect himself, pulls his eyes away from Jensen long enough to have another look at the bar. He has absolutely no idea what time it is, but the patrons are louder than ever, still laughing and spilling beer on the dirty floor.

In the center of the room, there’s a huddle of people, all pointing and cackling at something on the television. One of them – a short, meaty guy with a ponytail – looks red, can only peek out behind his hands. His buddies push at him occasionally, teasing.

Jared frowns, then looks at the TV.

It is, unmistakably, the blushing guy in the bar. He looks a little younger, hair shorter, and he’s in an office. His work, most likely, judging from his cheesy tie and cheap suit. Ponytail stops at the copy-room, obviously pleased to see a certain woman in the middle of making coffee. The jeers from the table ease up a bit, like they know what’s coming and want to appreciate it. One of them pulls at his Ponytail’s hands, encouraging him to watch.

Jared looks back the TV. The bar’s a little too loud to hear the words, but it’s not important. Ponytail’s chatting up the girl now, but he keeps pulling up at his pants. There’s no belt, they’re obviously too big, and Jared has a sudden, awful premonition. When the girl on screen goes to leave, one of her gaudy rings catches on Ponytail’s belt-loop. She pulls and pulls while he bats at her hands and the laughing in the bar starts up before it even happens, but with one mighty jerk, the pants slip over Ponytail’s hips onto the floor.

He’s not wearing any underwear.

“Holy shit!” Jared tears his eyes away from the screen, but he still knows why half of the bar is suddenly shrieking, boiling over with laughter. He’s torn between laughing himself and wanting to escape as soon as possible. Because if it happened to that guy, it might happen to h—

“No one gets away from it,” Jensen’s voice is tinged with amusement, but he’s not laughing. “It’ll happen sooner or later.”

“It’s happened to you?” Jared wants to know.

Jensen barks out a short, sharp laugh. “Unfortunately.” He keeps biting at his lip, tugging at the bottom and letting it loose. It’s like he’s nervous, half-distracted with some bigger worry. “Comes with the territory.”

Despite his new, sudden worry about when his own turn will come, Jared feels a strong surge of pity. “I promise not to look at yours,” he teases, wagging his eyebrows, “if you promise not to look at mine.”

Jensen really does laugh this time. “I promise no such thing,” he says lightly, and clears his throat. “Look man, I owe you an apology.” He looks severely uncomfortable, but determined, and Jared feels a bit of his drunkenness slip away as he listens. “You—you obviously had no clue what you were getting into, and I was a dick about it. None of the clocks are right, you couldn’t have known. And work—” he stops and gives a helpless little shrug, eyes still on the table. “I hate it, yeah. But it matters to me.”

Jared might still be a little too drunk for this conversation, but he manages to keep his mouth shut. Tells himself not to interrupt.

“That said, I don’t appreciate having a babysitter. I have no idea why they assigned you to me, but they did, so we’ll deal with it.” He picks up his glass as soon as he finishes, and frowns when he realizes there’s no beer left. With no other distraction, he has to look at Jared.

There’s a weird vibe in the air, so Jared nods seriously. “Thank you for sharing your comments and concerns. I’ll be sure to make a note on my report,” he says, and Jensen looks at him – completely horrified – before Jared lets his smile burst through.

He’s still giggling when Jensen recovers, and throws a sugar packet at his head. “Asshole,” he mutters, but it’s more fond than annoyed.

Jared can tell Jensen’s trying to build up a few walls, regain some of his serious ground, and Jared decides he can’t have any of that. He likes non-asshole Jensen too much. “Oh no, man,” he laughs, grin bright, “S’too late for that shit. You can’t fool me, anymore. You cared and shared.”

“Shut up,” Jensen’s still trying to sound annoyed, but there’s a smile creeping in on the edges. He kicks Jared under the table. “Let me kick your ass at pool.”

“Oh, Imma bring it.” Jared promises, surprised at how happy he sounds. He tries to spring out of the booth and trips, and it’s too easy to forget his place when Jensen laughs, reaches out a strong hand to steady him. Too easy to forget he’s on a job.

Too easy to forget he’s in Hell.

\--

Jared wants to protest when Jensen leads them back to his car. “Shouldn’t we call a taxi?” he asks, and does his very best not to sway in the parking lot. He narrows his eyes and looks at Jensen, who seems to be managing just fine, considering. It’s a little unfair.

“Why would we do that?” Jensen asks, patting his pockets for his keys.

Maybe Jensen’s a bit drunker than he’s letting on. “Because you’ve had at least six beers, dude,” Jared says, like it’s obvious. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

Keys in hand, Jensen fiddles with his lock. Jared hadn’t noticed in the bar, but the bags under Jensen’s eyes look bruised in the light from the streetlamps. “Afraid I’m going to swerve and kill someone?” he asks, and pulls open the door.

“Well, yeah, I—” Jared blinks. Thinks about what he just said. “Oh.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Get in the car, Jay.”

\--

Twenty minutes into the ride, and Jared finally thinks to ask, “Where are we going?”

The tires swoosh against the wet road like one long sigh. Jensen is swerving a bit, but truth be told, it’s not much different from earlier. “Home,” he says simply, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Your home?” Jared asks dumbly.

“You have money for a hotel?” Jensen does turn to look at him this time, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Another thing to ask Tom about. Unlike his Heaven, money does seem alive and well in Hell. Jared’s not sure how much Death Trial lawyers make, but he doesn’t like the idea of Jensen wasting money on him. Not when he’s sure he can find a way to get some of his own. He promises himself to pay attention to what Jensen spends, to pay him back later. With generous interest, even.

“Didn’t think so,” Jensen answers his own question, and sighs, rolling back his shoulders. “We’re almost there, anyway.”

Jared stares out the window as the truck eats up the road, counting buildings and warehouses until they’re replaced with smaller houses, all of them nearly identical. Unlike the bar, none of them look like they’re ready to fall apart; they seems sturdy from what Jared can tell, built of brick and sensible stone. He even spies a few gardens, and hopes Jensen can’t see the shock on his face. He wasn’t aware demons had a thing for home-grown tomatoes.

Finally, Jensen pulls into a driveway. Jared’s tired as all fuck, but he perks up a little as he grabs his bag and gets out of the car, following Jensen through the well-kept yard to the front door. He doesn’t see a garden, but there are various bushes and trees. All of them are losing leaves.

“I’ll give you the grand tour in the morning,” Jensen grunts, shoving open the door. “Let you critique my lawn in some proper light.”

Jared lets the snark slide, rolling his eyes. He’s known Jensen less than 24 hours, but he can already tell the man’s a grumpy-ass when he’s tired. And they’re both tired.

Jensen doesn’t bother flipping on lights as he leads Jared through a small living-room and down a hall. “You’re on the end,” he says, and there’s just enough street light for Jared to see Jensen’s finger jabbing down at an open door. He cocks his head to the door on his left, says, “I’m here, the bathroom’s there, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jared almost doesn’t want to ask, but “What time do we ne—”

“I don’t know about you,” Jensen interrupts, and gives Jared a light push down the hall, “but tomorrow I’m planning on nursing a healthy hangover. That’s about it.” And then, kinder, “Get some rest.”

Jared tries to smile his thanks, but Jensen’s already disappeared into his room, softly clicking the door behind him.

Padding down the hall, Jared makes it into his new bedroom, yawning loudly in the quiet space. He can hardly see anything, but it seems normal enough: no pictures of a horned Lucifer or upside-down crosses on the walls. If nothing else, it’s a bit boring. Plain and obviously unused. He wonders how long it’s been since Jensen’s had someone stay the night. How long since he’s had a visitor.

Jared keeps musing as he slips off his shirt, shoes, and pants before falling into bed, instantly asleep.

\--

Hangovers are vicious, wicked, and nasty things.

Jared sits on the edge of his bed in the morning, not sure if he wants to clutch at his head or his stomach. One is pounding, the other churning like Jared was drinking particularly vile battery acid and not beer.

His nose still works, though, and it’s the smell of a delicious breakfast that eventually drives him out of the room, down the hall and into the kitchen. He blinks a little at the sight of Jensen standing at the stove in a full-fledged apron, poking at something in a skillet.

Jared thought he’d been pretty quiet, but Jensen immediately turns around, brandishing his slotted turner. “No words,” he warns, poking the utensil in Jared’s general direction. “Your first breakfast is on the table.”

Despite how shitty he feels, Jared doesn’t even have to fake his smile. It blooms bright and bold on his face as he takes in the apron and the ducky pajama pants. Jensen’s bare feet. Jensen waves his turner again, eyes narrowed, and Jared throws up his hands in defeat. He won’t say anything, but he can still privately admire how fucking adorable the whole scene really is.

An apron. Honestly.

“Oh god,” he whines at the sight of the white pills and orange juice on the table, sinks into the chair. He palms them into his mouth, swallowing as fast as he can. “I take back all those nasty things I may or may not have thought about you. You are amazing.” He rests his head on the table, keeping one eye open to admire Jensen’s ducky legs. “Were hangovers always this bad?”

“Poor baby,” Jensen mocks, flipping switches on the oven. He walks over, skillet in hand. “Move your face.”

“Blerg,” Jared moans, and obeys.

Up close, Jensen doesn’t look much better off than Jared, but he smiles a little, pushes some eggs onto Jared’s plate. “If it helps, I’m sure being in Hell doesn’t make it easier,” he admits. There’s bacon in the same pan, and Jared nearly drools as he gets a few slices. It looks thick, fattening and greasy on his plate.

It looks wonderful.

Jared waits until Jensen’s sitting at the table before he digs in, groaning out pleasure with every bite. The sun’s a bit redder than he’s used to; it heats up his face, does a surprisingly excellent job of chasing away his headache. The light fills Jensen’s little kitchen, and Jared peeks around the room as he eats.

“God, this is fuckin’ good,” he says, already wondering if Jensen made extra. He could eat this for days.

Looking a little proud despite himself, Jensen gives a shaky laugh. “Did they not feed you in Heaven, either?”

“They did, but—” Jared pauses, tries to really think about what’s different. He had orgasmic dishes in Heaven too, but somehow it doesn’t compare. He thinks back to the pies, the sandwiches. Nothing ever tasted less than perfect, but they weren’t served up by demons in ducky pajamas. He didn’t eat them in Jensen’s kitchen. “It’s not the same,” he finally answers, trying to keep his voice light.

He must not totally pull it off; Jensen’s fork pauses on the way to his mouth. He eats it, eventually, and thankfully doesn’t ask what Jared means.

When Jared finishes off his plate, he does his very best not to fidget. He tries to admire the blue curtains and the messy countertops, but Jensen catches him. Sighs. “There’s more on the stove. Pig.”

Jared’s grin nearly breaks his face, and he scampers up from the table with his plate. There’s a whole extra skillet full of eggs and bacon and just imagining how it will taste is enough to make him hum happily. There’s still some left when he’s finished piling it up, so he turns around, question already on his tongue.

“Would you like some more? Just hand me your—” Jared stops, wondering why Jensen’s staring at his chest. Jensen’s eyes jerk up a second later, guilty, and a little flush colors his cheeks when he looks away, suddenly very interested in his coffee.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m—you can bring over the rest.”

Jared blinks, confused. He reaches down with one hand, ready to grab his shirt and look for stains, when he realizes he’s not wearing a shirt at all.

Oh, wow.

He hesitates at the stove, not sure what to do. Running back to his room at this point would only make it more awkward. A large part of him’s actually pleased he caught Jensen in the act, but Jensen’s taking the longest sip of coffee in the history of the universe, so Jared takes pity on him.

“It’s okay, man,” he says, brushing invisible lint off his shoulders. “You can look. I know you want my body.”

Jensen nearly spits out his coffee. “Dude!”

Grabbing his plate and the skillet, Jared heads back over, shaking his head sadly. “It’s not a crime to admire beauty,” he says, scooping out the remaining eggs on Jensen’s plate. “You can’t be blamed.”

“How long do I have to put up with you, again?” asks Jensen, but he’s rolling his eyes. He pushes at Jared’s shoulder, noticeably calmer, and digs into his second helping. “Freak.”

Jared smiles wickedly. “I’ve got nothing but time,” he says, and decides that’s enough. He sits down and attacks the new food, groans just as loud as the first time. “Can I ask a question?”

“You just did.”

Jared ignores him, continues on. “Is this—is there only one Hell? Does everyone end up in the same place?”

Jensen takes a break from the eggs, already shaking his head. “Think of it this way: everyone’s in the same house, but we’re all on different floors.”

Jared scrunches his nose, confused. “Hell is a house?”

“No, I mean—you remember the Circles, right? The different stops on the train?”

Jared nods his head slowly. If he tries hard enough, he can almost remember the sway of the train on the tracks. He definitely remembers the recorded announcements, the stations with their hanging signs.

“Nine circles,” he adds helpfully.

“Right,” Jensen nods, and picks up his fork, stabbing at the air when he speaks. “So think of each of those circles as a level in a house. When you die and go to Hell, you’re grouped according to your biggest sin. Murderers hang out in the basement, corrupt CEOs crunch numbers in the attic, fans of buffets and sodium gorge themselves in the kitchen. Everyone starts off like that, but it doesn’t mean you can’t move around. Doesn’t mean you can’t go to a different floor, because it’s all the same house.”

Jared takes his last bite of egg, settles back in his chair. “That makes sense,” he says, patting at his full belly. “Do people usually move around?”

“Most people like the illusion of freedom,” Jensen confirms, and swirls the rest of his food around on his plate. He shrugs his shoulders, trying to play it down. “So, yes. All you need is a train ticket.”

“Are all the levels the same?” Jared’s not sure why he’s so curious.

“No, all a little different. They’re kind of…tailored.”

“Ah,” Jared thinks he understands. “So the murderers like, hunt all their own food? Embark on cannibalistic hunts?”

Jensen laughs, but it rings a little hollow. “This is Hell, Jared, not exactly the answer to all your hopes and dreams. No, it’s—different. I’ve been to Circle 4. Where they keep the greedy. The CEOs in the attic,” he adds helpfully, and then smirks, like he’s remembering something. “They have to beg to earn any money if they decide to stay in their Circle. They can try, but they’ll never keep a job. Never advance.”

Jared blinks. That does sound a bit Hellish, but, “Can’t they just go to a different Circle, then?”

The red of the sun nearly glows on Jensen’s white shirt. He wipes off a stray bit of egg off the table with one hand, finishes off the last piece of bacon with the other. “They can,” he allows, “but chances are they still won’t have much luck. Doesn’t stop them from trying.”

“Sounds horrible,” Jared mumbles, and feels a bit of his breakfast happiness slip away. He doesn’t know why he keeps managing to forget, but he’s not on vacation. He wanted to get away from his Heaven and he got his wish, but this isn’t some New England bed and breakfast. Jensen is not the guy he met at the airport; they aren’t going to skip off into the sunset and he can’t let himself forget it.

And then there’s that other thing.

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “So what are you doing here?” Jensen stops drinking his coffee mid-gulp, and Jared rushes to cover up. Jesus, what the fuck was he thinking? “I mean—the 10th Circle, right? Is this—what is.” He’s mumbling, flustered, and more than anything, he wants to hide his face in his hands. Maybe cut off his tongue.

His teeth snap shut. He keeps his eyes on the table, waiting for the fallout.

When Jensen finally speaks, it lacks the kind of fire Jared expected. He only sounds tired. “The 10th Circle is Administration. Hell doesn’t run itself,” he sighs, and Jared hears the scrape of the chair as he gets up. “Sometimes people are promoted here. Think of it like an attached garage.”

Jared nods, looking at the table. Shame still runs hot through his tongue.

His plate is taken away before he can protest, slid away by one of Jensen’s tanned hands. Jared’s not sure what to do, then he’s poked in the ear.

“Hey!”

“Go put a shirt on.” Jensen’s face is clear, maybe even brighter than before. It’s as good of an out as Jared can get. “We’re going out.”

“Out?” It hadn’t really occurred to Jared to think past breakfast. “Where are we going?”

“Grocery shopping,” Jensen says, finally moving to the skin. He tries to hide it by turning to the sink, but there’s something wicked dancing in his eyes. It reminds Jared of Chad, the turn of his lips when he used the words “girls” and “Cuervo” all in the same sentence.

“Grocery shopping?” Jared repeats dumbly.

“Yeah, man. I got fucking Sasquatch sleeping in my house. You’re gonna eat me out of house and home. The least you can do is help me get food.”

Unbidden and despicably girlish, Jared wonders what he should wear.

\--

"I thought we were grocery shopping?" Jared pulls his head back into Jensen’s truck from out the window. He throws his hand up, shielding his eyes from an annoyingly bright sky, and frowns. “I don’t get it.”

Jensen's fiddling with something in the bag on his lap. He keeps pulling it away when Jared tries to peek. "We are going grocery shopping."

Jared turns, looks out at the road again. "In the middle of Demon Ville?" He's not sure what to think: they're parked in the bend of a cul-de-sac. A middle-aged guy in a sweater-vest is hoeing at the ground on their left; a slender woman in a tacky sundress is pulling weeds in the dirt by her sidewalk. There are squawking, unhappy birds and twitchy little squirrels, but there is no grocery store.

"I don't—"

"You said you'd help me," Jensen reminds, hands finally still. He looks up at Jared, green eyes sparkling with something mysterious. "And that's what you're gonna do. So listen up."

Throwing up his hands, Jared huffs out a sigh. Whatever. He's still completely confused, but if Jensen wants to test his fucking mettle, then so be it. Heaven hasn’t made him soft. "Bring it on, then." He makes sure to slap on a wicked grin, show a little teeth. "Tell me what to do."

Jensen laughs, beams a little despite himself. "That's the fucking spirit," he says, and pulls out his secret: a simple, patchwork box. Jared takes in the small markings (part of it resembles an old milk carton) and the dark sediment at the bottom. It looks like the kind of craft a creatively-challenged boy scout would bring home to his mother. Ugly, but innocent. Until he notices the fuse.

His eyes go wide. "What the he—?"

"Grocery shopping," Jensen reminds, and pulls out a lighter.

Jared lunges, but it's too late. He can't help the small squeak that escapes when Jensen actually lights the fuse. The spark is dull in the morning light, but it quickly eats away at the small cord.

"Jensen!" No amount of hand-slapping helps. Jensen holds it just out of reach, teeth shining brilliant in the cabin.

“Doesn’t look like we’ve got much time, does it?” Jensen shakes the box in his hand a little, proving a point. “Guess you’d better listen up.”

Jared’s not sure what’s more terrifying: the hiss of the traveling light or the fact that Jensen doesn’t look scared. The fact that he looks fucking delighted.

Jensen lets out a small, real laugh, but that does nothing to calm Jared's nerves. He keeps staring at the redness of the fire, how speedily it moves towards whatever's in the box.

"Jensen!" he says, shrill.

"Jared," Jensen says back, mocking and strangely fond. "You can do this. In a couple seconds, I'm going to throw this out the window. You're going to take this," he tosses over the backpack, quickly reaches in the back to grab another, "and you're going to run into Sweater Guy’s house. Got it?"

Jared stutters. What the hell is he supposed to do in the house?

“What the hell am I supposed to do in the house!”

The fuse is nearing the end. It’s close enough to the box that Jensen shifts it in his fingers, prepping it to be thrown.

"You're gonna go into the house," Jensen says quickly, eyes flicking between the window and Jared, "and you're gonna find the guy's kitchen. And then you're gonna fill your backpack with anything you see. Any food at all. Empty it out, you hear me?"

What?

"Jensen!" Jared can’t stop with the shrieking. He clutches at the bag in his hands, heart already pounding. "I—"

"GO!"

Swinging his arm back in the small space of the cabin, Jensen lobs the strange little box between the two demons outside. It hits the ground, immediately exploding in a shocking combination of color and noise.

It’s a fucking firecracker.

Jared's a little stunned, but he's still out of the car before he knows what's going on. The box is spewing light, jerking around like something alive, and the two demons are shocked into action. The guy hits the ground, but the woman chases after the box in the street, flapping her hands in the air.

Outside of the car, Jared stalls just long enough to see Jensen mouth something at him that looks suspiciously like Don’t crush the eggs. There’s really no way to tell. Knees bent and ready, Jared watches as Jensen's backpack disappears behind the woman's front door.

"Fuck me," Jared breathes, and moves on some new instinct. He rushes past Mr. Sweater Vest and into his house, slapping open the door with a sweaty palm.

It's nearly just like Jensen's house, right down to the placement of the furniture. Jared flashes a frantic look to his right and sees a familiar hallway. Spies where his bedroom would be. He forces himself to turn into the kitchen, nearly barreling into the refrigerator, and fiercely hopes that no demon’s about to bash in the back of his skull with a gardening tool. Hell or not, this is fucking outrageous.

His heart pounds alarmingly as he whips open the refrigerator door, takes half a crazed millisecond to blink at the full drawers, the packed shelves.

He's grabbing things before he can think about it, shoving broccoli and packaged meats into the backpack in a frenzy, throwing the occasional look over his shoulder to make sure that Sweater Vest is still outside. He is. Whatever Jensen rigged up, it's still shrieking out in the street.

Jensen. He’s gonna slaughter Jensen.

The bag's heavier by the second; with a puff of breath, Jared drops to his knees and goes through the freezer. He doesn’t know what he pulls out—the cold burns his hands as he handles the crinkly plastic and when he stands up, he can hardly zip the bag. He flings it over one shoulder and flies out of the room, knocking his hip into the kitchen table and his head on the side of the doorframe.

He hadn’t thought to close the front door, and runs back out into a clear, peaceful day, sweaty hair plastered behind his ears. Sweater Vest is still on the ground, but his lip curls back in a snarl when Jared rushes by, fleeing into the street. For a wild second, he doesn’t see the truck.

He’s ready to drop the bag—hand himself over, dodge the dude’s hoe—when a familiar Chevy truck roars up, stopping right in front of the house.

“Get the fuck in!” Jensen shouts through the open window.

Heart caught somewhere in his throat, Jared flings the bag at Jensen and hops in, nearly cutting off his foot when he slams the door. Jensen peels away from the curb, tires squealing, and Jared flips around in his seat to look out the back window. Sweater Vest is jabbing his hoe in the air—clearly a bit miffed—but he’s fading into the distance.

Jared clutches at his knees, breathing hard. “That—that was grocery shopping?”

Jensen’s laugh is loud and bright. “Yep. Oh, c’mon.” Jared feels a light slap on his arm. “You tellin me you didn’t have fun?”

"You fucking." Jared wills his heart to calm down. "Bastard, you—"

"You loved it. I maintain that you loved it."

Jared whips his head around, glares at Jensen's smirking profile. "I maintain that I just robbed a guy and that you're fucking insane."

Jensen smacks at the steering wheel in a small fit of glee. They're slowing down a bit, and Jared recognizes enough mailboxes and gardens to know that they're making their way back to Jensen's house. "I guess you did rob him," he smiles, flashes his eyes over at Jared. There’s a small pause before Jensen lets his eyebrows scrunch up in concern. "Oh wow, Jay. I wonder what Heaven will have to say about that?"

"Oh god." Jared angles his eyes up at the sky for no reason at all, not sure what to expect. Sudden, Heavenly wrath? Tom's voice on a loudspeaker? He’s ridiculous. Sighing, he slumps in his seat, palms at his face. "They can't kick me out, can they?"

Jensen hums in his throat, pretending to consider. "I don't know. You stole that man's dinner, broke into his house. That can't look good on your report."

Jared feels his face go pale, despite himself. "Do you—" he stutters, "Are you serious?"

"Nope," Jensen says brightly, and reaches out a hand to pat at Jared's shoulder. "But you're pretty cute when you're flustered. I couldn't help myself."

Jared sincerely doubts that, but a small bit of pleasure settles in his stomach. It soothes away some of the panic, even if he can't judge Jensen's tone. "Ha fucking ha," he says instead, and then pauses. "Is that really how you get your groceries?"

The truck bounces as Jensen pulls into the driveway. The air conditioning (which does less in the way of cool the truck than spit out vaguely stale air) shuts off when Jensen kills the engine and immediately grabs for Jared's bag. He looks through the contents, nodding proudly as he pulls out the packs of meat, the verdant green of the vegetables.

"Nice," he says, instead of answering the question. "Not bad for your first run."

"Jensen?" Jared prods again, lets a bit of volume creep into his voice. "Tell me the truth. Is that the only way to get groceries?"

"No," Jensen says, putting away a can of pickles. He looks up at Jared, pastes on a wicked smile. "It's not. But what would be the fun in going to the grocery store?"

"God, I don't know. The fact that you don't have to steal some poor guy's bread and butter?"

Jensen snorts. "Some poor guy?" he asks, leaning forward a little in disbelief. As mildly irked as Jared is, he can't help but admire the way the sun lights up the side of Jensen's face. He looks golden. Healthy and alive. "Did you forget where we are?"

A small bit of guilt creeps into Jared's shoulders. "I--"

"Might as well have fun with it, right?" Jensen continues on almost too quickly, and opens up his door. Jared's left sitting in the truck, blinking at the space Jensen just occupied. How does he keep forgetting? "Now c'mon. Help me put this stuff away."

Jared sighs, and does.

\--

In the combined loot of their raids, neither of them managed to pick up any bacon. Jared tries not to let his disappointment show, but Jensen wrangles out the reason for his pout and gives in, says they can go the grocery store as Jared bounces around the kitchen.

There is a grocery store in Hell, Jared learns, and it's not too horrible. The aisles are stacked from top to bottom with food, and despite how many times Jared catches someone slipping a pear or a bag of Oreos into their purse or pocket, most people actually pay. The prices are outrageous, but Hell doesn't skimp on the good stuff: the pack of bacon Jensen picks up is ungodly big, the meat straining against the plastic. He catches Jared staring and Jared tries a new experiment, lets his eyes go soft and longing, and has to hide his victory dance when Jensen rolls his eyes and grabs two packs instead of one.

He'd known it'd be expensive, but Jared's eyes bug out when they finally reach the register. The middle-aged cashier grabs at their minimal purchases with ragged, paint-blotched nails and barks out a ridiculous total that immediately makes Jared want to rush through the aisles, putting the few things they'd picked up back on the shelves.

"S'ok," Jensen mumbles, and Jared can tell he's doing some quick math in his head. He splits the bill between a deadly-looking black credit card and all of the bills from his wallet. "It's not that bad. Really."

Jared nods along, biting his lip, but he makes Jensen stop at a telephone booth on his way home. Jensen's never bothered to get a phone back at his house ("Who would I call, exactly? Who would I want to call me?") and Jared waves away his apologies, climbs out of the truck and punches in the numbers.

Tom picks up himself, this time. "So how pissed are you?"

"You're still on my shitlist, Tom." Jared sighs. He wishes he could summon up a little more ire, but he spies Jensen waiting in the truck. Even without a radio, his lips move as he sings some song and suddenly, some of Jared’s irk slips away. "But in a weird fucking way? I forgive you."

"That's the Heavenly spirit, Jay!" Tom's voice cackles across the line, clearer than it was by the depot. "What made you change your mind?"

"My mind is in no way changed," Jared maintains, and can't manage not to look back at Jensen. He's getting into his inaudible song, now: slapping at his steering wheel in an odd rhythm. "Today I robbed a man for groceries."

"Oh my," Tom drones, dull. Jared can imagine him sitting at his desk, flicking at his Jesus bobblehead while he rolls his eyes. "You've changed."

Jared picks at the hem of his shirt, ignores him. "So since you landed me in such a position, Tom. I think I deserve some money."

"You haven’t been paid in 50 years. Your guide should be—"

"My guide shouldn't have to waste all his money on me. Don't tell me Heaven can't afford it." Sometimes, Jared can hardly believe the words that come out of his mouth. His afterlife is surreal. "Can't you just—I don't know. Send me a heavenly credit card, or something?"

He can practically feel Tom smirking on the other side of the phone. "Sure, Jay. Just let me get in touch with MasterCard. I hear all their benevolent CEOs are hanging out in Eden."

"Tom."

"Alright, fine." Jared can hear the squeak of Tom's chair. He must be leaning back, bouncing as he usually did. "We'll hook you up, somehow. Ask your guide to take you to the post office the next time you get a chance." A pause, and then, "So how's everything else working out? Met any classy demons? Made any friends?"

Jared glances back to the truck, tries to hurry himself off the phone. Jensen can only entertain himself for so long, and there was talk of bowling and beer. Jared's totally ready to kick ass at bowling. "My guide's not half-bad," he allows, and feels like he's lying. "He makes a killer breakfast."

"Does he now." Tom's voice is flecked with humor. "Truth be told, I wasn't expecting great news from you on that end. No one ever gets a decent guide. And even if they do? They never manage to stay long. You've almost beat out Shirley Winters."

That’s a bit bewildering. Jared wonders how just how many people have gone before him and tried their hand at demon-watching, but he’s a little hung up on a detail. "There's betting?"

Tom lets the pause go on a little too long. “Maybe," he hedges.

Jared sighs. "I'll call you later."

"Keep up the good work, Jay. I’ll get you home as soon as I can.” Jared blinks at that, unsure how to feel. “Just let us know if there's anything worth knowing."

“Because that’s not vague at all,” Jared snarks, and stops himself from continuing on a mini-tirade. “Thanks,” he says, and doesn’t wait before he hangs up the phone.

He jogs his way back to the truck, opening up the door before Jensen can realize what’s going on. Jensen jumps a little, cheeks reddening up in an adorable way when he cuts his singing off mid-breath. Jared wants to tell him he shouldn’t be embarrassed—the little snippet of song he heard was actually quite good—but he pretends like nothing’s wrong. He smiles, eagerness already humming in his bones.

“So what’s this I hear about bowling?”

\--

 

The truck won’t start.

It’s odd to realize, but weeks have already passed in a flurry of trials, delicious meals, and crippling hangovers. Jared wakes up in Hell looking forward to hearing Jensen’s laugh, to thinking about the odd places they’ll go and see. And it’s strangely wonderful.

He jiggles his knee as Jensen slams down the hood for the second time, stalking back to the driver’s side with a manly pout. Jared resists the urge to check his watch (no matter how many times he sets it, it’s never right), but it’s just as easy to see how late they are from the bulging little vein in Jensen’s forehead. They were due to pick up a new set of court cases roughly twenty hassled truck-whines ago.

So, yeah. The truck won’t start.

Jared supposes he shouldn’t feel too surprised—finicky cars seem appropriately hellish—but he’s a bit worried about Jensen’s hand. He’s been smacking at the wheel and dash like he can beat the thing into behaving and now his fingers are an alarming shade of red. Car-slappage is interspersed with some of the most colorful cursing Jared’s ever heard. He didn’t know it was possible to do that with a pipe cleaner.

“Mother cuntfucking piece of ass, I hate this car.”

“10 points for cursing creativity.” Jared can’t help but say. He raises his hands in submission when Jensen glares at him. “Could we walk?”

Jensen shrugs, finally drained. He slaps at the radio one last time, visibly wincing. “We’ll have to take the subway,” he mutters, and Jared has to grin a bit at how childishly devastated Jensen sounds.

“I didn’t know there was a subway.”

“I really wish there wasn’t,” Jensen mumbles, twisting around to grab at his briefcase in the back seat. “I never thought we’d actually have to use it.”

“Oh, c’mon. It can’t possibly be that awful,” Jared says, and immediately wants to take it back. Hell’s wickedness really hasn’t disappointed him so far, but he bravely soldiers on. “Subways were shitty on Earth, anyway. How bad could it be?”

Jensen snorts. “Famous last words.”

\--

By the time they actually make it to the subway, Jared’s too tired to do much in the way of fuss about the dank air or the cloying, narrow feel of the station. Hundreds of miserable, sweaty bodies push in around them as they study a map—complaints and murmurs rhythmically drowned out by the louder arrival or departure of a train.

“Fuck me,” Jensen says, and Jared’s inclined to agree: the map is absolutely ridiculous. The lines of the tracks wiggle and bend as they please, all similarly colored and difficult to distinguish. Some of the lines are marked as out of service, while some of the working ones seem to lead nowhere at all.

 

Turning around, Jared takes in the layout of the station. He could be wrong, of course, but it looks like a kind of hub; he counts five tracks in plain sight and numerous hallways that likely lead off to even more.

Another sharp curse. “Been better off walking all the way there,” Jensen growls, tapping on a gray line on the map. “Stay here,” he says, sharp. “I gotta check something out, see where we need to go.”

“Where are you go—”

“Just—” Jensen pokes him firmly in the chest. “Stay here. Only take a minute.”

Jared watches as Jensen pushes his way through the crowd, heading towards one of the hallways. He keeps his eyes trained on Jensen’s neck long enough to see him disappear into the darkness.

Waiting, Jared can’t help but feel a little fascinated at his surroundings. The whoosh of tunnel-air that comes with an arriving train makes his shirt billow, and he studies the polished blackness of the cars as they open and close, squeaking and groaning like he’d expected they would. People push and shove to get where they need to go, but he can’t really pinpoint anything out of the ordinary.

The lighting’s odd, he realizes. Everyone and everything’s tinged in an almost mossy, unhealthy green. Trying to figure out where it’s coming from, Jared inches away from the map, eyes trained on the ceiling.

He doesn’t make it too far before he bumps into someone.

“Watch it!” a voice snaps, and it’s a testament to how jaded he’s already become that Jared hardly feels the urge to apologize. He looks down at a pixie-thin woman in a tracksuit who’s in the process of picking up dozens of pill bottles, her little hands snatching at them before they’re kicked away.

It slips through, anyway. “Sorry,” he says, and bends over to help.

“Back off,” she barks again, punctuating her command with a strong push to his side. “I can get it myself.”

Jared makes a helpless wave with his hands, but doesn’t get up. He stays crouched, watching as she scoops up the orange pill containers into an oversized purse. Closer to the tracks now, the rumble of the engines buzzes through Jared’s knees. It tickles in a mechanical way.

“I really am sorry,” he says when she’s finished, standing up. He’s not sure he’ll ever break the habit of needlessly apologizing. “I didn’t mean to—”

An impatient huff. “Why do you keep—” She cuts herself off when she finally looks up, eyebrows immediately pinching when she studies his face.

Jared squirms a little under her gaze, but stays still for inspection. She quirks her head a little, and an unfortunate knot twists in Jared’s insides when she smarts to smile. The green light masks the white of her teeth, menacing.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asks, but it’s not even a question. She stalks a little closer, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Um.” Jared deliberates on the wisest plan of action. He casts his eyes in the general direction Jensen disappeared, then to the grayer light marking the exit. “I’m not—well, it. Yes?”

“You’re not a demon,” she says, firmly shaking her head. “Knew it the minute I looked. What the fuck’s a celestial doing in the 10th circle?”

Some sort of age-old instinct makes Jared cringe as she says it. Celestial. It’s loud in the subway, but he’s worried it’s not loud enough; anyone close could have heard her little revelation, and suddenly his height and weight seem rather meaningless. It doesn’t matter that he towers over her, or that he theoretically has the means to take care of himself. The knowledge of being found out in such a public place sets up a kind of panic in his bones. He’s outnumbered, unsure of what could happen.

His words are still calm, though. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, attempting to sound stern. “Just go on. Okay?”

“No.” The left side of her lips tug up higher than the right. “’Fraid not. You’re going to come with me.”

“You know?” Valiantly, he doesn’t squeak. “I’d really rather not.”

“Do you even know the ransom price is for an angel?” She scoffs, stepping closer still. Jared’s not sure when he lost the ability to move, but he’s paralyzed, feet stuck to the floor as she runs a sharp nail down the center of his chest. “Baby, I could really use the money.”

Jared grabs her hand, pushes it away as gently as he can. “That’s nice, but I really—”

“Angel?” a new voice says. Jared whirls around to see a new meaty-looking guy at his back. Just as tall as Jared, confident in the way he flexes an arm. “Hard to know. You sure about that, Bev?”

“I found him first,” the woman—Bev, apparently—squawks out. “And keep it down. I don’t care how fucking loud this place is. Someone comes close enough? They’re gonna hear. You wanna share the cash with everyone or you wanna keep your mouth shut?”

Well, this is all very alarming. Talk of ransom and disturbingly green subways and confusing maps with moving lines and this was not where Jared had envisioned his day going this morning when he’d munched on jellied toast and flicked cold coffee at Jensen’s face. Jared had quizzed Jensen on Hell’s famous locals and there had been talk of picking up court cases and promises of pie.

Wiggling his toes in his shoes, he wonders how fast demons can sprint.

“—so just behave, come with us, and everything will be relatively fine.” Bev finishes, standing on her tip-toes to pinch a bit of Jared’s cheek.

His feet unstick. He palms away the pain on his face and backs up into muscle.

“Not going anywhere, buddy.”

Jared opens his mouth to argue, hand finally curling at his side. Dude’s a giant, but so’s Jared; gaining confidence, he’s 59% sure that he can take care of his own heavenly ass. Eyes flicking to the right, he spots Jensen weaving his way through the crowd. Looking grumpy. In all seriousness, Jared thinks he might fear an angry Jensen more than his would-be kidnappers.

Bev digs her claws into Jared’s arm, fruitlessly attempts to drag him away. It’s irksome enough to make him snap.

“Would you st—”

“Hi there, Bev.” Jensen’s voice is surprisingly clam. “Scott.” He nods to the other man. “Playing nice as usual, I see.”

Jared’s a bit embarrassed at how relieved he is to hear Jensen’s voice. He’s not—he didn’t need Jensen’s help, of course, but it’s a bit comforting to know that someone’s on his side. He watches as Jensen steps closer to Scott, eyes burning with something acidic.

Scott huffs. “What do you want, Jensen? You ain’t getting more than 10%. You ain’t worth more than 10%.”

Jared has a horrible and brief flash of Jensen bargaining for 30 when Jensen twists his lips up in disgust. “I don’t want the money. And neither should you.”

Scott rolls his eyes, but Bev hitches her purse up—bottles rattling inside—and asks, “What the fuck do you mean? You know what he is. Do you have any idea how much m—”

“Much of a mess you could get into?” Jensen interrupts. He swings a thumb at Jared, shakes his head like he’s not worth the trouble. “Yeah, I do. You don’t want him.”

“The fuck I don’t want him!” Bev growls. “Don’t play this game with me, Jensen. You just want him for yourself.”

“The hell I do,” Jensen says, and Jared’s surprised by how much that stings to hear. Even if he’s hopefully bluffing. “You think I want to deal with Heaven’s higher-ups? You think I want to mess with the fucking fallout that’d come from pissing off Barachiel?”

Bev looks suitably shocked, but Scott asks, “Bara-who?”

Jensen snaps. “The archangel, you fucking idiot. Word has it the dude’s interested in retirement. Been at it for millennia, wants a break, and this one,” he pokes his finger at Jared, again, “is training to be his replacement. Aren’t you, Jared?”

At Jensen’s pointed stare, Jared blurts, “I. Yes.”

“Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that Barachiel—the Barachiel—has an understudy wandering around Hell’s subway like an overgrown mutt in ripped jeans and a…” Bev pauses to turn up her nose at Jared’s chest, “…truly unfortunate shirt?

Jared tugs at his hem.

“I do,” Jensen says, defiant.

“Prove it.”

Jared blinks down at Bev’s little form. He desperately tries to think of something impressive to do or say, but the only thing that comes to mind is the card trick he learned when he was seven from his uncle. Something tells him the angel-kidnappers would not be impressed. His own mother was never impressed.

“He doesn’t have to prove it,” Jensen steps in, tugs on the back of Jared’s shirt hard enough to pull him out from between Bev and Scott. Jared stumbles to his side. “If you’re stupid enough to try, then go ahead. But it’d be one hell of a dumb fucking move.”

Again, Bev looks a little worried. Jared feels the tension in the air—the sharp indecision of the moment locking them all in place—and thinks they’ve made it, they’re free, when Scott huffs out a laugh and looms closer.

“I’m willing to take a chance,” he says, and grabs the collar of Jared’s shirt.

And, okay. Jared’s met his daily quota for demon poking and prodding and tugging. That’s fucking enough.

The forceful Stop from his mouth comes out like a punch, and he finds a sick kind of glee in the amount of whiteness he can suddenly see in Scott’s eyes. Until the lights go out.

There’s no emergency lighting, of course, but no one really bothers attempting to rush the exits. They’re too angry. Hundreds of bitchfits and groans and curses start up the second the station shuts down; Jared can hear the screech of the stopping trains above the clamor of the crowd, knows furious demons are stuck inside the cars. Blinking in the darkness, he reaches up to poke at his own lips. No way.

“Jared, c’mon.” Jensen’s mouth brushes against his ear, and Jared immediately wishes that it would happen more often. In the present moment, it’s shocking and hot enough to spur him into action.

“Dude,” Jared gets out, dazed. “I’m Harry fucking Potter.”

He can’t see much, but he’s fairly certain Jensen rolls his eyes. “Remind me to buy you a broomstick,” he says, and grabs onto one of Jared’s belt-loops for good measure. “Now move.”

They stumble to the light of the exit, leaving Bev, Scott, and a hoard of angry demons behind.

\--

“Lame.”

“Shut up.”

“So fucking lame.”

Narrowing his eyes, Jared concentrates on the empty burger wrapper at his feet. “Levitate,” he says forcefully, and when it fails to do so much as wiggle, he tries to bargain. “Move.” Nothing. “Move a little?”

Jensen erupts in a truly demoralizing peal of laughter. Sitting on the grass as they are, he shifts on one hip so he can properly kick Jared in the leg. “I think it’s time to give it up, dude.”

“No,” Jared says, petulant, and continues to stare at the unhelpful wrapper.

He stubbornly presses on, incredibly aware of Jensen’s amused grin at his back. He tries until it becomes too humiliating to bark orders at a piece of paper, and then he gives up—flopping back onto the grass next to Jensen, arm over his eyes.

“I don’t get it,” he whines.

He feels a small pat on his head, happier for the brief moment when Jensen’s fingers unconsciously linger on his neck. “Hate to break it to you, Jay, but power outages in Hell aren’t all that uncommon. Especially in subways. S’one of the reasons why it’s so horrible.”

Jared sighs, lowers his hand to look over. It’s a bit challenging to hold onto his disappointment with Jensen’s face less than a foot away from his own. His vision is filled with freckles and green eyes that blink back, roaming around Jared’s face like he might be appreciating the same thing in reverse.

Might be. Jared really, really can’t let himself hope.

Instead of rolling over and mauling Jensen’s mouth like he wants to, Jared turns his eyes back to the sky. “It would have been so badass,” he mumbles.

“It would have been,” Jensen agrees, and Jared glances over to see that Jensen’s also shifted, concentration now directed at the growing darkness of the sky. “Was a lucky break, but it did some good.”

Jared huffs out a mournful heh. “In what way?”

“You scared the shit out of Bev and Scott, for one. They’re convinced you let loose some kind of heavenly wrath in the subway. And I’m sure word’s gotten around about what you supposedly did. It’s not—not everyone can tell you’re a celestial, but it might prevent anyone who can from trying to pull something similar in the future.”

Jared thoughtfully taps his fingers against the ground, mulling it over. “I’m okay with this,” he finally decides.

“You’re okay with people thinking you’re a badass when you’re really not?” Jensen pauses to laugh. “You support false advertising?”

“Most definitely,” Jared says seriously, before his smile breaks through. The annoying buzz of a bug suddenly flies by his ear and he bats it away. Which reminds him, “So, really. What are we doing here, anyway?”

Finished early with the trials, Jensen had taken one look at the sky before pushing Jared into the truck with a pleased grin. They’d stopped for food (blissfully huge hamburgers) and parked at the bottom of a fucking enormous hill. Jensen had gleefully ignored all of Jared’s questions as they climbed, racing for the top. They’d eaten, Jensen teased Jared about his pink shirt, and then Jared had gotten distracted with the wrapper.

Fucking wrapper.

“Hell has fantastically violent storms,” Jensen says now. He eases his body up onto his elbows, leaning back, and Jared does the same. “And this?” He nods into the distance, at the sprawl of Hell and horizon at their feet. “This is the best seat in the house. Long as you don’t mind getting wet.”

Jensen’s grin is wickedly infectious, and Jared finds himself grinning back as the first rumble of thunder echoes in the air. Massive storm clouds move closer, eating away what’s left of the blue sky and sun. They sit in silence as it pushes in, lightning flickering like a camera flash in a dark room.

The air and space around them takes on a new feel. It’s charged—some inexplicable mix of electricity and exciting danger fills Jared’s lungs when he breathes, fueling the part of his brain that tells him to run before it’s too late. He feels exposed on the high hill as they are; with no kind of shelter and with no one around, it feels like the storm’s heading just for them. Carefully crafted just for them to see.

Jared has to tell himself not to reach out for an umbrella when the rain starts to fall, fat drops that quickly soak into his shirt and sit on his eyelashes. He wipes at his face, determined not to miss a thing, and finds himself smiling over at Jensen, who’s already doing the same.

“Watch,” Jensen says.

It’s delightfully terrifying to sit still, to let the storm barrel closer without moving away. Jared’s never seen anything like it: the clouds shift from color to color, deep reds and purples that collide and fold in upon each other, transforming the sky into something more than alive. The heavy hush of the rain is only broken by blinding flashes of light, the chasing boom of thunder that shakes Jared’s bones.

They’re in the storm, and when Jared looks over, Jensen seems just as magically entranced as Jared feels.

It’s a punch to the gut to take in Jensen’s profile, the way his shirt and pants cling to a body Jared is absolutely sure he’d like to get his hands on. He lets himself imagine closing the small gap, reaching out to touch the beads of water cradled in the hollow of Jensen’s shoulder, to slide forward on his knees and press Jensen back into the grass, inhale the smell of wet soil and sweat and subway blackouts. He can imagine the look on Jensen's face, flashing surprised but wanting in the explosion of lightning, the way the tension in Jensen's body would drain away under Jared's fingers, helpless against the slow drag of Jared's tongue up Jensen's neck, Jared’s need to drink the rainwater away.

“—okay?”

Jared blinks hard, snapping back to the moment. Despite their closeness, the heavy downpour blurs Jensen’s outline. It’s somehow louder than Jared remembers, and he has to speak up. “What?”

Jensen frowns. “I said, you feeling okay? You looked…” However Jared looked, Jensen does him the courtesy of leaving it unnamed. He quirks his head like he’s expecting an answer, though, so Jared gathers up his courage.

“Yeah, no. Completely fine.” Jared does his best to summon up a normal, I’m-completely-fine smile. He’s not sure he manages, as Jensen keeps his head tilted and confused.

“You sure?”

“Very sure,” Jared confirms, and sincerely hopes his brain and dick are now firmly on the same calm and collected page. He shifts his leg up, just in case.

Jensen looks completely unconvinced, still staring in the general vicinity of Jared’s face. Jared flashes another quick smile, trying to reassure, before dragging his eyes away to peek at the sky. He realizes that most of the lightning has stopped; the clouds are only occasionally illuminated, the mood more peaceful than stormy.

“You ready to head out?” Jensen asks, although it looks like he’s already made the decision: the empty wrappers and fast-food bag dangle from his hand. He walks over to Jared, holds out his other hand to help him up, and Jared scrunches his nose at the less-than-pleasant feeling of wet and muddy jeans.

“Ready,” he affirms, and brightens at a new idea. “Race you down the hill?”

\--

Racing down muddy, wet-slick hills does not encourage cleanliness.

Jared squirms in the seat of the truck, wincing as his clothes squelch and stick to his skin. He feels mud caking and drying in places mud should never be, so it’s a pleasant distraction when Jensen clears his throat.

“Looks like the rain is letting up.”

Peeking out the window, Jared agrees, but there’s not much more to add. He hums his agreement and picks at the mud on his thumb, already thinking of a devious way to grab the first shower. The rain is a white noise, beating on the roof.

“Used to watch storms all the time back home.”

Jared looks over at Jensen, surprised. It’s a rare occasion that Jensen talks about anything beyond Hell, even rarer that he offers up personal information beyond the basics. Jared keeps quiet, not willing to ruin the moment, and fiercely hopes that Jensen will continue.

Jensen’s hands clench and unclench at the wheel, fingers stretching. He speaks to the windshield. “My uncle had a ranch, big plains that’d stretch on for ages. We’d hear about a storm and head out in his truck to watch the clouds blow in.” Nodding to himself, Jensen gives a little shrug. “I always liked that.”

As far as details go, it’s a pretty lame revelation, but Jared’s not going to protest. It’s enough. The faint smile on Jensen’s face as he remembers makes it more than enough.

“So it was nice, you know. To have you there. Today.”

Something warm and pleasant squeezes Jared’s lungs. Jensen does look a little unsettled in the wake of his confession, but the shy smile he throws at Jared is fond and real. Jared soaks it in, this new piece of happiness he managed to put on Jensen’s face. It feels better than he could have imagined.

“I liked it too,” Jared says, the words coming out strangely serious. “Being there,” he adds, like Jensen had forgotten the topic at hand, and Jared smiles a goofy smile because Jensen reduces him to needless clarification and girlish modes of behavior.

“Good to know,” Jensen shoots back, seemingly unconcerned, but it’s playful and he sounds lighter than he has since Jared’s first day, weeks and weeks ago.

Jared did that. Jared put that there, and not for the first time, he knows he’d like to keep it up.

\--

 

The next time Jared manages to remember, he tells Jensen to stop by the post office. It’s a shabby little thing—disorganized and small—but after waiting in a criminally long line, Jared walks out with a package from Heaven. He tosses out the note from Tom (“Have you found anything yet?”) and runs back to the truck, waving his shiny new credit card in the air. He slides into his seat, smiling.

“So what do you want to buy first?”

Ripping it out of Jared’s hand, Jensen rubs his thumbs against the plastic, whistling in approval. “Dude,” he says, awed, “You got a limit?”

“Probably not,” Jared says gleefully, but tries to reign himself in. It isn’t something to brag about, even if it should make their non-lives easier. He watches Jensen fiddle with the plastic and almost feels his mind bend with the strangeness of it all. A Heavenly fucking credit card. “Why, what do you have in mind?”

\--

“This can’t be legal.”

“Tell me you did not just say that.” Standing next to Jared at the open window, Jensen elbows him in the rib. “Sometimes I think you forget where we are, man.”

Somehow this only makes Jared’s worry more relevant. “Hell doesn’t have cops, right? Secret, undercover ones with really nasty tempers?” It gives him a chill just to think about it. “Tell me we’re not going to do this and get arrested and suffer for centuries in some kind of infernal jail.”

He turns to see Jensen staring at him, amused. “Says the guy that secretly enjoys stealing groceries,” he teases, and smacks a filled balloon into Jared’s chest. The liquid sloshes around inside, loud and incriminating. “Now quit worrying about eternal damnation and prove that you’re man enough to hit a moving target.”

Swallowing spit, Jared peeks out over the window’s ledge. They’re high enough in the abandoned building to ensure that the balloons will actually pop, but low enough that Jared can make out the grouchy faces of the people that pass below. This wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when Jensen threw balloons and soda into their shopping cart, but he hoists up his weapon anyway, eyes targeted on a near, particularly foul-faced demon.

“You got what it takes?” Jensen eggs him on, and that’s all he needs: Jared lets go of the balloon and holds his breath as it falls, exploding in a wonderfully nasty spray of dark soda on the demon’s head.

Her little shriek of outrage must echo for miles.

A sharp tug on his shirt tugs him out of sight and down to the floor, just as he starts to laugh. Jared loses his balance and falls on his ass, but some evil, boyish kind of joy has taken over and he couldn’t care less. The woman’s still shouting outside, violently cursing at the sky.

“Wanna give away our position?” Jared can tell Jensen’s trying to sound serious, but he doesn’t manage for long. His mouth tilts into something pleased. “Nice shot.” He nudges Jared with his elbow. “Gotta admit I’m a little surprised. Not nearly as good as I am, of course. But who is?”

“Big talk.” Scooping up another soda balloon, Jared pretends to boink it on Jensen’s head. “Let’s see you make three in a row.”

“Challenge accepted,” Jensen grins, and they’re off.

Jared loses track of how many they drop, how many times he has to bite off a howl of laughter when Jensen misses and sports a truly spectacular frown. His sides ache by the end of it—from being tugged out of the way, from laughing—and any kind of cop worry has been effectively killed. He’s too busy trying to distract Jensen to worry about much of anything, actually. Including that pesky, confusing job of his.

They drop balloons until it’s too dark to see and the sidewalk outside looks paint-splattered with balloon remains. A prank graveyard.

Jared tries not to crow about his winning total (or that awesome shot, the one with the blindfold) but Jensen’s scowl and arguing are too infectious to pass up. They rub shoulders on the way out of the building—bumping into each other when there really is no need—and hop into the truck, already dreaming of what prank to pull next.

And when Jared relates some of his more spectacular Earthly pranks, Jensen is properly amazed and respectful.

“Twelve chickens?”

Jared lets the pride bubble up. “And a bottle of mustard.”

“How the fuck did you end up in Heaven?” Sudden silence when Jensen turns off the engine; they’re finally home. “You’re an evil bastard.”

Jared just smiles, wicked and magnificent.

Walking into the house, he can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s lucky, somehow. Lucky to see Jensen toe off his shoes, stumble around for the light switch and curse when he misses. The lucky feeling cements itself in Jared’s skin.

It’s late. The lone lamppost sends in a dreary yellow light, a shade brighter than the one Jensen managed to turn on. Jared hangs out near the front door, curiously watching Jensen reshuffle the pillows on the couch. He pats them an inordinate amount and tucks them back in place. He seemed fine in the truck, but his shoulders are a little tenser now, bunched up closer to his ears.

Unsure of what to do, Jared hesitates before turning to edge down the hallway. He’s not really sleepy, but he—

“Jared?”

He hadn’t made it very far. Jared turns around to see Jensen lingering by the TV, plastic DVD case in hand. He holds it up, waves it a little in the air.

“I didn’t—” he starts, uncertain. “Are you tired?”

Jared tries not to sound too eager. “No.”

“Right,” Jensen says, and continues to fiddle with the case. He must realize how twitchy he’s being because he catches himself, calms down with a sigh. “Want to watch Man versus Wild? You wouldn’t shut up about your hard-on for Bear Grylls the other day, and then I found this. Forgot I had it.”

“Dude!” Jared rushes over, snatches the case out of his hand to inspect the back. “Is this the one where he’s in Ecuador? Piranha fishing? He uses a fucking bow and arrow because he’s a badass. I love that shit.”

More comfortable, Jensen rolls his eyes. “Put it in, then. Even if he is a phony hack of a survivalist.”

“Shut your mouth. Bear is a talented and fearless soul, and he’s more awesome than anyone you know. His name is Bear.”

They settle down, sprawling on the couch. Jared endures Jensen’s complaining and cries of falsehood as best he can, and if he sits closer than he needs to, that’s no one’s business but his own. Jensen knocks knees with him absentmindedly, jabbing an accusing finger at the screen when he spots an inaccuracy.

It’s not entirely a bad way to spend an evening.

\--

“Does this make me your pimp?” he asks Jensen on the way out of the store. He hefts up the bags of their haul as evidence, plastic biting into his fingers. “Because I feel like a pimp.”

They’d stopped for groceries on the way back from a trial. It’s happened enough times for them to have a routine: grabbing two separate carts on the way in, filling them up with food, and letting Jared foot the bill at the checkout.

“Nope,” Jensen says merrily, grin bright as he swings his own bags into the back of the truck. “Makes you a kind and generous dead man, willing to compensate your beleaguered caretaker for the suffering he’s had to endure since your tall ass wandered into Hell.”

“Ah,” Jared says, pretending to mull it over. “So that’s how it is.”

“That’s how it is,” Jensen confirms. He walks around to his own side, has to put the weight of his body into pulling open his door. “So get in.”

Happily, Jared does.

It’s a rare day, weak sunshine heating up the air. Jared cranks down his window as Jensen drives and chatters on about his first trial (Lucy Brennan: schoolteacher by day, arsonist by night), mimicking Kristen’s first high-pitched hello. Jared listens, laughs when its appropriate, and Jensen’s approving smirk hits him hard in the chest.

Jensen continues on unaware, but Jared’s halfway gone because he realizes he likes that smirk. He likes the days Jensen forgets to tuck in his shirt, likes his stupid apron, the way he bitches at the truck. And it may be silly to enjoy, but Jared hasn’t been smiled at by any stranger in weeks—no one’s offered him free bikes or food or instantly wanted to be his friend. The weather sucks, most of the time. The sock he tried to knit while he was bored at one of the trials came out absolutely shitty, but it was almost worth it for the way Jensen teased him for lugging in yarn and needles.

He likes these stupid things. He tries to tamper down the word love, but it sits there in the corner of his mind. Waiting.

\--

Time goes on, and Jared’s nearly lost track of all the sins he’s committed.

Even with the credit card, they’ve gone on more than one firecracker shopping run. Jared’s not sure how to feel about the fact that he’s almost getting good at it, the fact that he nearly anticipates it. The fast thrum of his heart when they pull up to a new house is addicting. Strangely exhilarating.

Jared can’t help the fact that Jensen’s an excellent cook, or the fact that he’s perpetually starving for more time in the kitchen. Time slips by in a series of breakfasts, lunches, dinners; Jared steals bites of eggplant, fried potatoes, fish and white sauce and Jensen flicks water at him, growling in a way that makes Jared laugh.

The fact that Jensen insists on wearing his little apron is just an added bonus.

They’ve stolen more than food, of course, even if it still tends to make Jared nervous. Jared has never seen Jensen with a schedule or a cell-phone, but they swipe quarters for the meter when Jensen has to work. The trials are always interesting, but Jared’s always happy when they’re finished. He looks forward to the release in Jensen’s shoulders, the inevitable trip to the bar.

It’s so easy to forget where they are. Rain falls on more days than not, but Jared doesn’t mind being trapped with Jensen in the car, in the house, in a bar. Information about Jensen’s life still comes slowly, but he eventually talks about Texas. Chatters on about his brother and sister and how he learned to cook the summer he broke his leg. Jared hangs onto these stories the way Jensen hangs onto his, filling in the blanks of each other’s lives.

He’s still a bit of an asshole, of course, but Jared’s getting better at teasing him out of his moods. He’d like to think Jensen enjoys his company. Likes to think the way he catches Jensen staring at his lips means something.

Tom insists on regular phone calls; Jared dreads them more each passing day, entirely aware of just how testy Tom’s voice is becoming. He wants answers that Jared doesn’t ever want to have.

Most of the time, he tries to forget he’s supposed to be doing a job.

\--

Jensen has a surprisingly complete collection of National Geographic. Jared found them as he was snooping in the basement, rooting around for something to occupy his time. Jensen left him at home – said he had to go into the office for an hour – and so really, he only has himself to blame. A bored Jared is a curious Jared.

Which is how he finds himself lugging up crates of magazines into Jensen’s living room.

“Did you know that the kinkajou can turn its feet around backwards?” He proudly holds up the proper page in the magazine when Jensen walks in, feet slowing down when he spies the mess. “It’s a defense mechanism! They can climb up or down trees faster that way.”

Jensen blinks at him, eyes roaming over the old milk crates and the litter of magazines around Jared’s feet. “Is that so,” he says, a little numb.

“I trust the folks at National Geographic. They seem like a believable bunch, don’t you think?” Jared beams up at him from the floor, setting the magazine in his lap.

Jensen blindly shuts the door behind him, not turning around. He takes in a breath like he’s ready to speak, then stops. It looks like he’s torn between amusement and bafflement.

“It’s related to the raccoon,” Jared offers.

“I refuse to believe you died at 26.” Jensen finally says. He walks forward, crouches down to pick up an errant magazine. He studies it a little before setting it down. “You died when you were ten. Tops.”

Jared flashes him a strong smile, kicks softly at Jensen’s shoe. “Young at heart,” he says, and lets himself laugh when Jensen rolls his eyes.

“Ugh,” Jensen groans, getting up. “Lemme put this shit away.” He shakes his briefcase, now likely full with new cases. “And then? Food.”

Jared puts down the magazine, bounds after Jensen when he disappears into his bedroom. “So,” he teases, appreciating the view when Jensen takes off his jacket, goes to loosen his tie. “What are you making me for dinner?”

He teases, because Jensen’s actually been teaching him how to make simple dishes, or at least insisting that he gets in on the cooking action. Jared graduated from stirring to chopping last week. And as much as he’d like to believe that his newfound love for the kitchen has to do with budding talent, Jared’s under no illusions: he knows it has to do with his teacher.

Like every cliché in the book, Jensen stands closer than he needs to when Jared learns how to chop zucchini. He adjusts Jared’s hands with his own (“It’s a knife, not a chopstick”) and they brush shoulders when they stand at the stove. Jared learns about searing, sautéing, broiling, baking, and frying and the warm ache that settles into his skin as they work has nothing to do with the oven.

Something’s there, for the both of them. Jared’s more sure about this every day. But something’s also holding them back.

“I was thinking,” Jensen starts now, and then stalls. Jared knows he’s stalling because he’s picking up some of his dirty clothes from the floor. Jensen never bothers to clean up his room. But he’s suddenly diligent, picking up socks and boxers and shirts and ties and—

“You were thinking?” Jared prompts.

A black sock falls to the floor, lost from Jensen’s grip. He swallows, and turns to look at Jared in the doorway. “I was thinking we could eat somewhere else tonight.”

Jared blinks. “Like on the couch?”

“Like at a restaurant, you idiot.” Jensen snaps, and immediately blushes. There’s a still moment of sharpness between the two of them, right before Jensen backtracks. “You know what? Nevermind. Go in the kitchen, start chopping a pepper. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jared watches as Jensen attacks his messy floor with new and shocking vigor. He’s confused until a happy, delightful thought comes to mind.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Ackles?”

Three socks fall to the floor. Jensen’s eyes are too wide when he blurts, “No.”

Jared’s grin blooms brighter with every second. “I think you are,” he sing-songs.

“No I’m not!” Jensen insists, and manages to look everywhere but Jared’s face. “Look, just go into the kitchen. We’re having spaghetti.”

Jared moves forward into the room, tries to temper down his smile. “Jensen,” he says, more serious.

“And garlic bread.”

“Jensen.”

“And a salad.”

“Jensen.”

Jared’s nearly backed Jensen into the corner. He can see the lip of an open drawer digging into Jensen’s hip, notes the way Jensen’s body has gone rigid, the small bit of terror that’s creeped into his face. When he speaks, Jared keeps his voice level and sincere. Tries to act like he’s approaching a very wounded, pissed-off animal.

“I’d like to go to a restaurant with you,” he says, and doesn’t let himself debate before he reaches out a hand, gripping lightly at Jensen’s arm. “I think we should.”

“Yeah?” Jensen breathes. He looks at Jared with hesitant eyes.

“Yeah, man.” Jared’s torn, as he always is these days, between going with the moment (leaning in, pressing his lips to Jensen’s own, possibly damaging furniture in the ensuing cardiovascular workout) and holding back out of fear. Jensen’s looking at him like he’s debating the exact same thing, but Jared can spy the hesitation and worry. So he offers a soft smile, squeezes Jensen’s arm before letting go. “You gonna take me out, or what?” he says, and the moment’s passed.

“Imma take you out,” Jensen says softly, and Jared has to hide a pleased grin: Jensen still sounds a bit stunned. He recovers, though, and pushes at Jared’s shoulder with a fake scowl. “Now quit crowding me. I gotta get changed and you need to put on a different shirt. Y’look ridiculous.”

“Yes, sir,” Jared salutes, and scampers out of the room.

\--

The restaurant Jensen leads him to after the trial looks surprisingly chic on the surface, all dark wood and soft lighting that can’t quite manage to smother an underlying trashiness. Jared blinks a little as they enter, staring at the servers and decor. They pass a waitress on their way to a back table and Jared blinks harder; she’s decked out like all the rest: absolutely gorgeous, curvy body leaning over to take the order of a rowdy table, high-heeled in fishnets and an ungodly short black dress. The male servers wear even less, strutting around shoeless with nothing but black boxer-briefs and a matching tie.

So it’s trashy.

Undeniably trashy, even, but the prepared food Jared sees nearly reeks of money and quality. His mouth salivates at the steaks, the peppered chicken, the smells wafting off the soups. The fine linen of the table they end up at should seem at odds with their shirtless waiter, but somehow it works. The whole place is stylish and dark. Sexy.

He’s still standing by their table—taking it all in—when a waiter stops by with a set of menus. He hands one to Jensen, already seated, and holds the other out to Jared.

“Thanks,” Jared says, grabbing at a corner.

“Anytime.” The waiter smirks, blatantly rakes his eyes over Jared’s body. Jared’s cheeks heat with the attention and he tries to sit, but only manages to turn around before the waiter pinches his ass.

Jared jumps a little. “Ow!” He turns around, not sure whether he’s going to glare or blush some more, but the waiter’s already sashaying away.

“What else can you expect?” Jensen raises his eyebrow, daring Jared to be surprised, but he’s glaring after the waiter. From the set of his shoulders, Jared can tell he’s a little irked.

“Well—” Jared starts.

“Jenny!”

A loud voice booms from across the room. Jared turns to see a man weaving his way through the clusters of tables. The guy waves a hand in greeting, and his smile is white enough to blind.

He arrives at the table in no time at all, nods at Jared before he turns to Jensen. “Jenny,” he says again, and Jared can hear the fondness in his voice. “Where have you been? Haven’t heard from you in months.”

Jensen stands up, is crushed in a brutal man-hug before he can speak. He looks at Jared over the guy’s shoulder, eyes a little apologetic. “Sorry, man. Been busy.”

“That right?” He sounds warm and friendly, but Jared feels a bit of awkwardness creep in when the stranger turns to him, clasps a friendly hand on his shoulder. “This that babysitter I’ve heard so much about?”

Jared blinks. He offers up a small smile, but he’s not sure what to say. His usual exuberance fails him; why hasn’t Jensen said anything about this guy? The realization that he’s spent nearly every waking minute in Hell with Jensen bowls him over a little. He hadn’t meant to monopolize Jensen or anything, it’s just that he—

“Whoa.” The hand on Jared’s shoulder shakes him a little. The guy laughs a warm laugh. “Calm down. Didn’t mean nothing by it. Fidgety, isn’t he?” he says to Jensen, and sits himself down at the table.

Jensen’s eyes flit back and forth between the two of them, analyzing. “Jared can be a pretty princess, sometimes,” he allows. “Yeah.” And then he remembers his manners. “Jared? This is Steve.”

“Steve Carlson,” Steve says, and sticks out a hand. Jared takes it and shakes back as friendly as he can, still unsure of what to say. “Used to work with Jensen until the fucker got promoted.”

“Still jealous, I see.” Jared thinks Jensen’s still a little rocked by Steve’s sudden appearance, but he clearly likes the dude. He’s settling into the booth, kicks at Steve’s shoe under the table. They seem easy with each other. Comfortable.

Jared doesn’t know how to feel. He tries to squash the jealousy building up, tries to remind himself that Steve seems like a good guy. Jared’s got no claim on Jensen, after all. Which stings a little to realize, but he catches himself before it festers.

“Who wouldn’t be jealous?” Steve’s voice calls him back. Jared watches as he turns in his seat, flashes some kind of hand signal to the restaurant bar. “You get to work the trials, put a little of that internal angst to good use. I’m stuck behind a desk.”

“At least you’ve got a job,” Jensen says.

“At least I’ve got a job,” Steve concedes, bowing his head in mock submission. “Speaking of, how are you liking yours, Jared?”

Jared opens his mouth and realizes he’s still standing. There’s an awkward moment where he’s not sure where to sit, and he eventually drags a chair from a nearby table over to the edge of the booth. “It’s good,” he says, and it’s the first thing he’s said. “I’m—it’s good.” And when Jensen and Steve stare at him with unblinking eyes, he blurts out, “Jensen’s a great cook.”

Steve’s sudden laugh is loud and hearty. “You’re cooking for him?” he asks Jensen. “Must really like the guy. Wooing him with your talent and such.”

A different waiter arrives with a round of whatever beer Steve must have hand-signaled from the bar. Jensen takes one, keeps his eyes on the liquid. “He’s all right,” he says, but the glance he throws at Jared seems fond.

It brightens up the smile on Jared’s face.

“He’s a fucking monster,” Steve says, eyeing Jared up. “What the hell did you do in the land of the living? Wrestle down stubborn trees?”

“Only on Tuesdays.” Jared tries to sound serious, but he earns a friendly slap on the back from Steve.

“Look at this guy!” It seems like half of the beer disappears when Steve takes a sip. He finishes, groaning in pleasure, and turns back to Jared. “So how long they got you down here for?”

“I—” It’s been a touchy subject ever since Jensen found one of Tom’s notes. Neither of them knows when Jared’s supposed to leave. It hangs over them, weighted. “Well, I’m not—”

“Haven’t told you much, right?” Steve supplies, and Jared nods back, grateful. “Can’t seem to escape needless vagueness, no matter where you end up. Heaven or Hell.” He takes another sip of his drink, and Jared fervently hopes he’ll move on to a different topic.

He does.

Time blurs by, and before long Jared finds himself grateful for Steve’s presence. He hasn’t met many people in Hell aside from Kristen and the various faces they’ve stolen from. And it’s equal parts reassuring and worrying that Jensen’s not the only decent guy around. Steve laughs at Jared’s jokes, seems honestly interested in his stories, and helps him make fun of Jensen’s apron.

For the millionth time, he wonders what they’ve done.

\--

“Oh god, and the bacon, right?” A handful of empty beer glasses and dinner plates litter the table. Jared’s abandoned his chair and moved next to Jensen in the booth, hand open and hopeful on the plastic between their thighs. Steve’s tipping back in his chair, keeps up a steady stream of jokes and remember-when’s. “He doesn’t still eat it with a fork, does he?”

Some of the tables have been cleared for an impromptu dance floor. No one’s really dancing, but people congregate in the empty space, milling around and chatting. Short, stout men gesture at tall women; a sleazy guy in a tuxedo whispers into the ear of a waiter. All types and sizes. All ages.

Jared admires it more than he should.

He drains the rest of his beer in one go, turns to look at Jensen, who’s pretending to sulk. “Nah,” Jared grins, loopy. “No forks with his bacon. Still arranges the cans in the cabinet by color, though.”

Jensen pokes him in the shoulder, betrayed. “Dude.”

More beers arrive at the table. Jared takes another, happy with the world, and hopes he doesn’t forget to grab the check first. The bill will be outrageous.

“Same old Jenny,” Steve rumbles. “Did I tell you how he used to wash his socks in the sink?”

“No.” The beer is rich on Jared’s tongue. Refreshing. “But you really should.”

“Okay, I’ve had enough.” Jared laughs as Jensen shoves at his arm. “I’m gonna take a piss,” he says, and stands up. He points a finger at Jared, wagging it like a school teacher. “You behave. Don’t go spilling all my secrets.”

Jared watches him stumble away, gaining momentum and steadiness as he goes along. Jared had fucked up the laundry two days ago, but he can’t quite feel sorry for Jensen’s shirt when it stretches the way it does. He might stare longer than he should, appreciating the view.

Steve’s eyeing him when he turns back around. Oh, right. The concerned-friend talk. Truth be told, Jared has been expecting it. Doesn’t mean he isn’t dreading it.

He steels himself, looks Steve in the eye. Unashamed.

Steve takes a minute, fiddles with the coaster under his beer. He flicks a quick glance over Jared’s shoulder, likely checking to see if Jensen’s fully disappeared. And then he clears his throat. “So you like him.”

Cutting straight to it, then. Jared almost approves. “I do,” he says honestly.

Steve nods, like he was expecting that answer. His happy, constant laughter is replaced with something more serious. He angles his eyes at the dance floor, away from the table and Jared. “He’s a good guy.”

“He is,” Jared says, soft. He’s never been able to reconcile Jensen with the place he ended up. He’s snarky, yeah, and perhaps a bit prone to robbery and theft, but he’s real. His laughter is real. The love for his family is real. He’s more real than immediate gratification, more real than anything in the place Jared left. “He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah.” Steve rubs a hand over his face, pulling at the bridge of his nose. “It’s just—what do you plan to do about it, exactly?”

Jared blinks. “Well, I—I haven’t really. Nothing yet.”

Jared can’t hear Steve’s sigh over the music, but he sees it. “But you’re planning on it?”

“Yeah,” Jared says simply. He is.

More nodding. “I hate to—but Jared? You know how long you’re gonna be here? How long they’ll give you? I don’t know your boss, man, but from my experience? If you haven’t told him anything, he’s probably getting antsy.”

Coldness rushes down Jared’s back, instantly sobering. He hasn’t let himself think about it. It’s true: Tom has been calling more, asking for more. And every time Jared says he’s got nothing, Tom’s annoyance gets a little stronger. He never knows what to do, and Jensen’s caught on to the tension. Pulled back a little, just when Jared thought it might work. That it was worth it to try.

“It’s not allowed, you know.”

Jared’s eyes snap up, lock onto Steve’s face. “What?”

“You really didn’t—?” At Jared’s stunned look, Steve sighs wearily. He spreads his hands out on the table, rubs at the linen as he speaks. “It’s a stupid rule, and frankly? From what I know, Hell couldn’t give a shit who you fuck. But Heaven does.”

No. There’s no way.

“You’re serious?” Jared gets out, voice strangled. “It’s—?”

Bits of Steve’s hair escapes his small ponytail when he shakes his head. “No. Jared, I’m sorry, but it’s not allowed. They catch you? You get into a shit-fuck of problems. You’d be taken back to Heaven, no questions asked.”

“And then what?” Jared whispers, almost afraid to ask.

“Then there’d be a trial.” Steve pauses, huffs out a sad laugh. “A big fucking trial.”

“For falling in love?” Jared asks, incredulous.

“I didn’t make up the rules, Jared. I know how stupid it sounds. Why should they care, right? But you gotta understand, man.” Steve sits up straighter for a minute, checking past Jared for any sign of Jensen. “Heaven and Hell? Oldest fucking rivalry in the history of creation. Dots and stripes, day and night. They’ve never agreed with each other and they’re never going to. These rules and regulations have been around since before the beginning of time. I’m not saying I agree with them, I’m just letting you know that they’re there.”

Jared’s heart beats painfully in his chest. His throat feels constricted, swollen tight. He thinks about getting back on the train, imagines how he’d feel walking through his depot. Walking to his empty house. And it’s horrifying, it’s—

A boot connects with his shin. Jared yelps.

“But listen to me, man.” Steve lowers his voice. His eyes are bright, deadly serious, and he reaches across the table to grab at Jared’s sleeve. “I don’t fucking care.”

“What?” The word punches out of Jared.

“I knew Jensen on Earth. We lived together here before his promotion and we’ve been friends for a long fucking time. The guy, he’s—he’s been messed up ever since it happened.” Since what happened, Jared wants to know, but he keeps holding on to Steve’s rushed words. “He died and then he came here and it’s been fucking awful. Hell.” Steve bites out a humorless laugh. “He’s got that job and that house and that stupid truck, but that’s it. He’s miserable and it makes fucking sense, but he doesn’t deserve it.”

Jared can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you? What are you saying?”

Steve huffs, still keeps his voice low. “I have to spell it out?” he asks, but he goes on before Jared can speak. “I’m saying that he likes you, man. That it looks like you could keep him happy, and that that’s worth more than any rule we’re supposed to follow.”

This is all a little heavy for a first private conversation. Jared staggers a bit in the face of what Steve’s suggesting, but there’s a spark of something promising in his words. Jared clings to them, willing himself to have hope.

“You’ve just gotta be willing to take a big fucking risk,” Steve says.

“I am,” Jared gets out, and he’s never meant anything more. Determination anchors itself in his bones, settles in his heart. “I’ll do it.”

Finally, Steve lets go of Jared’s sleeve. His eyes catch at something in the distance and he curses, leans in even closer. “He’s coming back. Do yourself a favor and get a cell phone, all right? I’ll give you my number before we go. Just—whatever you do? Nothing where anyone can see. No one can know for sure who he’s sent to Hell, but word’s gotten around what Jensen does for a living. Doesn’t matter if he’s responsible for their personal ticket or not: some people are fucking pissed, and they’d be more than happy to turn you guys in.”

Jared blinks. He’d never thought about it like that. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but then a warm weight slides in next to him. When he looks up, Steve’s got a smile firmly in place, already tipping back his chair.

“That was a long fucking piss, Jenny,” he teases, and it’s like the past few minutes never existed. Like they were discussing lace and doilies instead of Heaven and Hell.

“I saw a payphone outside. Called in to see when I work.” Jensen raises up a scribbled-on napkin as proof. There’s a pause, and then he looks between the two of them, narrowing his eyes. “What were you two whispering about?”

Jared freezes; he’s always been horrible at hiding things, and he doesn’t trust himself to answer. But Steve laughs again and picks up the conversation, seemingly unconcerned.

\--

As promised, Steve hands over his number on a soggy coaster before the night ends. The bill eventually arrives, and Jared snatches it up as quickly as he can, gives his card to the waiter before Jensen or Steve can even pretend to protest. The waiter takes the black booklet away, but not before he caresses Jared’s hand. Pinches at his palm.

Jared’s never been to a grabbier restaurant.

“Fuck, I knew you were paying? I’da gotten the good stuff,” Steve’s slurring a little, but he still hasn’t managed to fall out of his tipping chair. Jared’s duly impressed.

“Maybe next time,” he laughs, a little tipsy himself. “If you’re good and all that.”

“Oh man,” Steve’s chair snaps back to the ground, all four feet stable. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a guy that lives in Hell. But you know what? I’ll do my best,” he says, and stands up, stretching his arms in the air. Finished, he waggles his fingers at Jensen. “C’mon Jenny. Outside. I need a smoke before I leave.”

“I don’t smoke,” Jensen says, speech clear. He’d had less than either of them, spent most of the time sipping on a glass of Wild Turkey, instead. “You know that.”

“What’s Hell without a little temptation? Come out with me,” Steve insists, and drunkenly winks at Jared before he pulls Jensen out of his seat and towards the exit.

Jensen rolls his eyes, but goes along with it. “We’ll meet you out there,” he calls back to Jared, and stumbles a little when Steve sways. “Don’t get lost or anything.” He’s further away with every step, but Jared can still see the curve of his smile.

Nodding his agreement, Jared hunkers down at the table for the receipt. He’s not drunk enough to think Steve took Jensen outside for anything other than a run-down of their own previous conversation. He squirms in his seat, thinking about it. What’s Jensen going to say? Is he going to think it’s worth it? That Jared’s worth it?

He bites his lip. Reaches for the last watery inch of Jensen’s drink and downs it, all in one go.

\--  
He can’t stall forever, but when Jared finally makes his way outside, Steve and Jensen seem calm enough. They’re acting exactly like they did in the bar—Steve’s sucking on a cigarette, but he pushes jokingly at Jensen’s shoulder and Jared can hear Jensen snark out an answer. There are a few other random smokers outside, but they’re all minding their own business, mingling amongst themselves.

Jared’s not sure what to think.

“Jay-bird!” Steve spots him, waves him over. “There you are. We missed your company.”

Jared manages to find a smile, walks to the corner of the restaurant. “Of course you did,” he scoffs, and tries to read Steve’s eyes. What did he tell Jensen? Did he say anything at all?

There’s nothing to see. Steve’s smiling just as hard as he always has and his eyes are clear and bright as he claps Jared on the back. Clear, but unreadable.

“Talk to you later, man,” Steve says quietly, and somehow he sounds more sober. Jared opens his mouth to ask, but Steve pulls away so he can grip Jensen in the same kind of goodbye, speaking up loudly. “You fools take care of yourselves, all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen answers for them, pushes a little at Steve’s shoulder until the man cackles and stumbles towards his car. “Go drive your drunk-ass home.”

“Such love,” Steve grins. He fumbles for the handle of his beat-up muscle car, eventually manages to get himself inside. Jared watches as he backs up, nearly hits a telephone pole, and peels out of the parking lot, waving at them through the open crack of his window.

And then they’re alone.

Considering how awesome the night started out, Jared feels a bit lost in the harsh lights of the parking lot. He meant what he said in the bar: he wants Jensen; he’s just got to put together an irresistible plan of action. Until then, the heavy weight of the night presses in at his skin, keeping him still.

“You tired?”

Jared starts, a bit shocked to realize that Jensen had scooted closer without his notice. He’s at Jared’s elbow, now, eyebrow raised in question. “Are you tired, or not?”

“I—not really, no.” Jared doesn’t know why he stutters. Despite what he heard, he feels like Jensen’s asking him a different question. “Why,” he asks slowly, suspicious. “What did you have in mind?”

Jensen shrugs. His elbow hits Jared as he turns to glance towards his Chevy. “Get in the truck,” he says, and Jared tries his best to interpret the look in his eyes but he can’t. It’s something new, not unkind. “I want to show you something.”

Something hopeful settles in Jared’s stomach. He finds himself nodding, following after Jensen when he starts to walk off.

He wonders how the night will end.

\--

Jensen drives East, if there’s such a thing in Hell. The truck bounces on even the smoothest pavement, and Jared finds his heart skipping along to the sway of the suspension, mouth void of words. Any hope he’d held in the parking lot sadly fades away; there’s a new set to Jensen’s shoulders that he can’t read or interpret.

“Almost there,” Jensen finally says, voice crisp in the cabin.

It breaks the odd mood, frees something inside Jared’s throat. “Where are we going?” He’s been meaning to ask all along, curious despite a growing sense of fear.

There. A small grin. “You’ll see,” Jensen says, and pulls off onto a gravel road. Wild, tall weeds brush at the windows, and Jared sits up straighter, tries to see ahead into the dark. The headlights are hardly helpful; the inky blackness of the night swallows up the light in a matter of feet. The darkness pushes in around them like a shroud, suffocating.

Something about the whole thing sits uneasy in Jared’s stomach. He feels like the stark opposite of drunk: every jostle of the cabin, every small snippet of song that Jensen hums seems amplified. Hyper-real.

Jared’s breathing faster despite himself, realizes he has no idea where he is. He’s not scared of Jensen, not scared of what he could do. He’s terrified of what Jensen could say.

“Jesus, Jay.” A warm hand settles on his shoulder, squeezes once before letting go. Jared snaps back into the reality of the truck, looks over to see Jensen snatching worried glances at his face. “Calm the fuck down. You look like someone’s about to shoot your dog.”

“Sorry,” Jared mumbles, a bit embarrassed. “It’s just—” He cuts himself off when something catches his eye, and squints into the oncoming distance. “What the fuck is that?”

He knows he’s not imagining it: the horizon is getting lighter, darkness steadily being replaced by a deep, blood shade of red. It flickers a little, like the shadows of the campfires Jared used to make as a boy. A quick look at his watch affirms that it’s not whatever lights up Hell during the day. The weeds are disappearing too, dying off and swapped out for millions of small, rounded black stones.

Jared turns to face Jensen, mouth already open, but Jensen silences him with a look.

“Just watch,” he says.

And Jared does. He watches the blackness bleed away, watches as the sky turns red. The truck whines up a hill, cutting off his view, and Jared gasps when they finally pull over the hump.

All he sees is fire.

Glowing, flickering flames lick at the sky—bigger and brighter than anything Jared’s ever seen. He nearly presses his nose against the windshield to get a better look, notices that the fire is contained, somehow, in a circular patch in the middle of a sea of stones. He doesn’t know how to feel first: awed or horrified.

When Jensen keeps driving closer, Jared’s mind starts to kick in. He thinks about the rubber of the tires, the tank full of gasoline. He thinks about how they should be burning up.

“Jensen?” he asks, hesitant. “We can stop here, man. Aren’t you—aren’t you worried about the truck?” Aren’t you worried about our fucking skin, he thinks.

“It’s not hot, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Jensen keeps driving, but he does ease up; the truck rumbles closer at a slower pace. “Hellfire never is.”

Hellfire. Jared’s looking at Hellfire.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, but it’s without a sense of fear.

When Jensen finally stops the car, Jared’s door is closest to the flames. He angles his body towards them, completely enraptured by the swirl and flashes of light, the way they dance across the black stones. Worry for any upcoming conversation with Jensen fades away as he watches. He could stare at them all night.

He doesn’t even notice that Jensen’s left the truck until he’s blocking Jared’s view, face set in an achy smile. He taps on the glass. “Come out.”

Once again, Jared’s shocked back into reality. He nods, swallowing against the dryness in his throat, and puts his weight into opening the door. It creaks open, just as stubborn as it was the first day Jared arrived, and he makes a frantic, mental note to ask Jensen if he’s got any oil.

Stepping out of the truck, Jared takes another moment to marvel at the feel of the stones beneath his shoes. They glide against one another, water-like, and it’s the strangest sensation in the universe to take a step forward. Jared moves, but he feels like he should be standing still.

“Wow,” he says. He finally glances up at Jensen, who’s steadily looking back, profile outlined in flames. He takes in Jared’s wonder with a small, pleased grin.

“Glad you like it,” he says, and it’s then that Jared realizes how quiet it is. The flames aren’t completely silent, but there’s no roar. And there’s no heat. “Look at you,” Jensen manages a small laugh. “Like a kid.”

“Not much Hellfire in Heaven,” Jared says, shrugging a shoulder.

“Guess not.” Jensen presses his lips together, debating, before he reaches out a hand.

Jared blinks at it, looks back up at Jensen with confused eyes. He has no idea what’s going on, no idea what he should expect. It’s all been ripped away. His arm moves out on its own accord, powerless not to take Jensen’s hand in his own.

Some weight disappears from Jensen’s shoulders. “C’mon,” he says, and tugs.

\--

 

Jared watches his feet as he lets himself be led over to a patch of bigger, equally black stones. Jensen’s hand is cool in his own, but the grip is light. Hesitant.

The fire is close enough to touch. The broken part of Jared’s brain wonders what would happen if he reached out, let his hand disappear into the red. It’s strange to feel no heat, strange not to hear the cackle of the flames or see a source for its existence. This fire eats away at nothing at all, like the air itself is wicked enough to sustain it.

Jensen’s hand drops from his own. Still standing, Jared watches as he sits himself down on one of the rocks, stretching his legs out towards the flames. Back stiff, he arranges and rearranges his arms until it’s too clear that it’s intentional.

And then he sighs. “Get down here, Jay.”

He sounds exhausted, and it’s concern more than anything else that makes Jared slowly sit—facing Jensen as Jensen faces the fire.

Jared waits, expecting an explanation. But the minutes pass, and the silence is nearly as suffocating as the dark at the edge of the firelight. Jared’s nearly hesitant to breathe, to slouch down; any kind of movement sets up a rustle of fabric that he’s not brave enough to stand. So he waits.

There’s a small groan of a word stuck in his throat, waiting to escape. He wants to know what’s going on. The flicker of the flames is mesmerizing, but it’s not enough to distract him from the fears that keep building and festering in his brain. He feels full of it, so many words and questions: what Jensen’s thinking, what he wants. And he may be dead, but Jared’s a grown dead man; he’d like to think he could handle whatever ultimatum Jensen gives, but if he says—

“I came out here the first week I was in Hell.” Jensen’s voice rings out clear, slicing sharply through the silence. He’s still staring at the fire. “Got off that train and all I wanted to do was run, you know?” He doesn’t wait for Jared to speak, just nods like he’s confirming the memory. “I stepped out of that depot and smelled the dirty air and I knew where the fuck I was.”

Jared lets a breath push past his lips. His hands tremble.

“Stole a car, first thing.” A dead chuckle. Jensen brings up a hand to rub absently at his jaw, gives a sad shake of his head. “Don’t even know how I did it. It was some beat-up thing—seats torn, windshield all busted up like someone’d taken a bat to it. Didn’t fucking care, though. All I wanted to do was get away.”

Something in Jared’s heart cracks. “Jensen,” he says, too soft.

“Drove that thing for hours. Tried to follow the tracks, backtrack as best I could remember.” And now, finally, the smallest bit of strain laces the words. Jared thinks it must take a bit of effort, but Jensen carries on. “Hours, man. Petal to the floor. And when I stopped, you wanna guess where I was?” He turns to Jared at last, pivots his body completely. Skin bright, he looks nearly inhuman in the glow of the fire.

Jared swallows. He shakes his head, not brave enough to say it. “I—”

“I was right here,” Jensen says firmly, punctuating his words when he slaps at the rock he sits on. “Right where I belong.”

Finally, something else tugs at Jared’s chest. Frustration gives him the courage to speak up. “Stop it,” he says, but Jensen’s already turning away, bending down to pick up one of the small rocks.

Jensen plays with it, lets it tumble around in his palm. “What are you going to write on your report?” he asks, glancing back once.

What? Jared’s forehead scrunches up. “What are you talking about?”

“Your report,” Jensen says again. He’s hidden all the stress of before, of what it must have cost him to tell that story. He sounds freakishly normal now, even cocks an eyebrow when he continues. “You’d better come up with something good to impress your boss.”

“Why are we talking about my boss?” Jared asks, slow.

“Well, you’ve gotta get a promotion, right?” Jensen says this like it’s obvious, and Jared finds himself lost. Floundering in confusion. “That ain’t gonna happen if you turn in a shitty report. I can help you think of a few things, if you’d like. Plenty of things Tom would love to get his hands on.”

“Are you serious with this?” Anger flickers at the edge of Jared’s consciousness, rapidly replacing confusion. “This is what you’re concerned about?”

Jensen shrugs. “It matters, doesn’t it? What you say?”

“Why are you—?”

“You turn in this great report, he’ll eat it up, and you’ll get promoted. Rise up in the heavenly ranks, like you should. It can’t take too long—you could write it up tomorrow if you wanted, be back to your apple trees by dinner.”

It’s amazing how quickly the mood can shift, warp into something different and unexpected. Jared has no idea where Jensen’s going with this, but it pisses him off. He’s concerned about Jared’s report? Fuck what Steve must have said: he’s worried about Jared getting fucking promoted?

Fuck that.

“And how would you feel about that?” Jared asks, voice gaining strength. He hopes he sounds like a fucking shark—at least a little dangerous. “If I left, got promoted. Would that make you happy?”

“Well yeah, man.” Jensen says, too fast. “It’s what you deserve.”

“What I deserve,” Jared repeats, numb.

The little rock evaporates into a sharp flare of light when Jensen tosses it into the flames. There’s an edge to his voice now, too, but he sounds like he’s still trying to be earnest. “You deserve the best. I—I think you deserve the best.” Another sharp shrug, another rock gone into the fire. “You deserve to go back to Heaven and fucking enjoy it, Jay. What do you guys got there, huh? Must have mountains. A beach?” To his credit, he doesn’t flinch under Jared’s hard stare. “Go back and enjoy it like you should. Find yourself someone to settle down with for eternity and live it up. So to speak.”

Holy fucking shit.

Just how far does this madness go? Jared digs his hands into his knees, kneading the flesh to keep his voice measured. “You’d take me to the depot tomorrow,” he clarifies, trying to get the facts straight.

Jensen shifts on the rock, but he keeps his eyes on Jared. Brave despite it all. “Yes.”

“Knowing I probably couldn’t come back.”

Jensen looks away. “Yes,” he says, voice softer.

“And you’d be fine with it?” Jared can’t help how he bites out the words, teeth nearly catching on his tongue. “Fine with me leaving?”

“You’d be getting what you deserve,” is all Jensen says, helpless. He leans forward like he’s trying to convey some kind of sense, maybe inspire Jared to see his sincerity. “That’s all.”

“I see,” Jared says, and stands up.

He can feel Jensen’s eyes on his back as he moves away. He’s too smart to wander off—knows he’d probably be unprepared to handle whatever wickedness is waiting in the darkness—and it kills him. He’s completely trapped: mind and body buzzing with the freshest, most vivid kind of rage he’s ever felt.

Staring off into the blackness, the words spin back and forth in Jared’s mind. So apparently, Jensen’s interested in telling him how to live his afterlife. Not only does he know what Jared should do (leave Hell, leave the job, leave Jensen), he’s wholly convinced that it’s the right thing. That it’s what he—what was the word again?

Right. What Jared deserves.

“Jared?”

Turning around, Jared doesn’t even bother to control his expression. There’s no point in tempering down whatever he feels. And it’s credit to how truly and utterly pissed off he is that Jensen’s meek look stirs up no kind of pity. He’s standing, now—hands at his sides.

Jared raises his eyebrow. “I thought you were finished,” he snaps.

Hurt registers on Jensen’s face. Which, in an odd way? Almost pisses Jared off more. As it is, Jensen just swallows, walks a little closer. “You should come back to the fire,” he says, eyes darting off into the darkness.

Jared’s vision nearly goes white. “You know?” he manages, voice taut, “I think I’ve heard enough friendly advice tonight, thanks. I’ve met my fucking quota.”

Jensen’s eyes harden. But only a little. “It’s not safe,” he insists.

“Oh, for fucking—” Jared throws up his hands, walks back to the stones as calmly as he can. He is not five. He refuses to stomp, even though the idea is ten kinds of appealing. He turns around to find Jensen at his elbow, having followed. “Happy?”

“Do you want to go?” Jensen asks. All the hardness of earlier is gone, even the small frustration from a minute before. He must see the warning flash in Jared’s eyes because he quickly clarifies, “Back to my house? It’s—it’s late.”

Jared blinks at him, stunned that Jensen even has the nerve to speak. He’s more awake than he’s ever felt, but the desire to escape this place is incredibly strong and he’s willing to do anything to leave it behind. Even get into a truck with a man he’d love to throttle.

“Yes,” he says, and waits.

It’s a bit enjoyable to see Jensen squirm. He looks up at Jared, eyes searching for something Jared most certainly does not want to let him have. And then he coughs.

“Come on, then,” he says, and turns around.

\--

Once upon a time, Jared was desperately in love with Marcy Hartford.

His family loved to tease him about it—happily recalling the way sixth-grade Jared spent his allowance on a pink teddy bear. How he put together a mix-tape of the cheesiest, best love songs he could possibly get his hands on. For weeks, Jared walked around in a haze of her red hair and small nose; it didn’t even matter that she was maybe-kind-of-a-lot older than he was. Age was completely non-essential. And his mother always did try to hush his brother, but Jeff’s eyes sparkled with tears when he laughed out how Jared finally got up the nerve to hand over his gifts in a grand display of dorky affection.

In the parking lot. In front of everyone. And her boyfriend.

Her face turned as red as her hair, but she did have the grace to give him a pat on the head. Right before she fled.

Jared has no idea why he thinks of this now, as Jensen pulls into his driveway. The engine dies when Jensen pulls out the key and they sit in the same kind of charged silence as before. And all Jared can think about is Marcy fucking Hartford.

She probably wasn’t his first rejection—definitely not his last—but Jared can still recall the way he felt: the shame and embarrassment of feeling like the punch line of a really terrible joke. It was shocking to know she hadn’t felt the same way. And maybe they hadn’t really talked—maybe she hadn’t really known Jared was alive—but he still cried in his momma’s arms that night, Jeff’s howling laughter in the corner.

There’s no comparison between then and now, really: horrible declarations of love are almost a pre-requisite for childhood and unlike Marcy, Jensen’s been here the entire time. And Jared’s pretty fucking sure he wasn’t imagining the way Jensen looked at him over his morning coffee, or the way he laughed when Jared pulled off a spectacular prank. This wasn’t all in his head.

He’s still angry, but a new wave of sadness knocks the energy out of his bones. There’s a little bit of pity in there for himself, but most of it’s reserved for Jensen. For the sure way he patted the rock and declared he was where he belonged.

Bullshit.

“You gonna sit in there all night?” Jared turns to see Jensen already outside, calling to him from the front door. He shifts a little on his feet. “You can, if you want,” he rushes to say, “I’m just—going inside.”

In a small, defeated sigh, Jared pushes open his own door. Jensen waits for him as he makes his way to the front, shifts to the side as Jared passes him and heads straight for his room.

He dreams of nothing at all.

\--

He’s not really sure what he was expecting to find in the kitchen the next morning, but Jensen sitting calmly with a mug of coffee and a plate of eggs takes him by surprise. He looks up at Jared over the rim of his cup, face unreadable.

Jared stands in the doorway, scratches at his stomach. Awkwardness reigns supreme.

“Yours is in the oven,” Jensen finally says, and waves a hand in the general direction. “Keeping warm.”

Jared nods, opens his mouth to say something before squashing it down. Thank whatever god that Jensen decided to turn on the radio; he can’t even hear the music, really, but it makes for a nice distraction from the quiet. Jared opens up the oven and it doesn’t even matter that he’s still pissed: the sight of bacon makes him whimper.

“I love bacon,” he says, for no reason at all. And it’s true. So fucking true.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Jensen’s voice still sounds a bit rough on the edges, and yeah: he’s probably still just as irked as he was last night. But the snark is familiar and welcome.

“Ha fucking ha,” Jared says, and grabs a cup for himself before heading back to the table. He decides he’s not quite brave enough to sit down yet. “You want some toast?”

“It’s already in the toaster. Just hit the button.”

Thought of everything, then. Jared almost lets himself tease, but decides to lose himself in the routine of their breakfast. It’s creepily normal on the surface: he makes the toast, Jensen gripes that he uses too much butter, and Jared attacks his food like it’s the last meal he’ll ever see. Together they sit in the sound of munching and the radio.

Until Jensen clears his throat. “Trials today,” he says.

The radio keeps chirping in the quiet.

“Oh.” Jared finally says. He had seen the briefcase by the door, but hadn’t put it together. Tonguing at his cheeks, he’s not sure what to say except, “What time?”

“Couple of hours.” Jensen stops to take a sip of coffee. “We should leave by ten.”

Jared nods at his plate, runs his fork around the edges to take up some time. This is goddamn awful and he hates what the morning’s become. Anger bubbles up again when he thinks about why, and he’d just like to move on from everything, just—

“I can take you back to the station after, if you’d like.”

Jared’s fork hits his plate and bounces down to the floor. His jaw feels like it should crack in a million bony shards, he’s clenching it so hard. “No,” he gets out, and counts the dents in Jensen’s table to keep calm. “I wouldn’t like.”

A short pause. “You’re staying here?”

“God fucking damn it, yes I’m—” Jared cuts himself off, raises his eyes to glare somewhere in the vicinity of Jensen’s forehead. It’s a nice forehead, which only pisses him off more.

Jared is going to great pains not to look at Jensen’s mouth, so he only hears when Jensen growls out, “You shouldn’t, you de—”

"Do not fucking finish that sentence." Jared has to restrain himself from doing something terribly stupid. Like reaching across the table and throttling Jensen's neck. Or, you know. Cutting out his tongue. As it is, he tries to remember yoga and peace and fucking harmony. "Just--quit talking."

Miraculously, Jensen gets the hint. His eyes narrow and darken, but he keeps his mouth shut. He slams the rest of his coffee and grabs his plate, stalks over to the sink before stopping and turning back. But he doesn't speak.

Jared knows what he wants: he picks up his empty plate and brings it over, slipping it in next to Jensen's. He'd really, really love to say something snarky at the moment, but Jared's too close to flying into a terrible snit of rage. It's better just to keep quiet.

"Thanks," Jensen bites out. And Jared hadn't known it was possible, but he starts violently washing the dishes. Each clatter and crack of the plates in the sudsy water sounds like a mini death knell of kitchen-crockery. It makes Jared wince, but he must remain strong.

And through it all, the radio keeps buzzing. Jared has half a mind to just walk over and bash it's knobby little face in, but he distracts himself with the pretty day outside. Walking to the window, he stares out at the street, thinking he could be anywhere. Nice days in Hell are far and few between, but when they come? They're actually pretty miraculous. It looks invitingly warm outside, and he can't help but think it'd be a lovely day to go grocery-stealing. If he doesn't murder Jensen first.

"Jared."

Jared jumps, whirls around. Blinding anger is wiped away by shock when he sees Jensen standing before him. Dude's a sneaky little bastard when he wants to be.

"I'm going to get ready for the trial," Jensen says, and he sounds fairly reasonable. Jared can't keep up with today; he's surprised that anything's shocking him. Especially Jensen's mood. "You're going to come, right?"

"Yes." Jared blinks down at him, arms still zinging with the need to do something. "I--yes." He hopes he sounds firm, like he books no argument.

But Jensen only nods, like he's already accepted it. He sighs, pulls at the muscles in his neck with a strong hand. It looks like he might say something, but he only looks up to confirm his plan of action with Jared.

As soon as he’s gone, Jared rests his head on the window, fervently hoping it won’t break.

\--

“Drop me off here.”

Jared taps at the window of the truck, nail tinkling against the glass. He thinks this should work, as long as Jensen agrees. And he should: as determined and single-minded as he is about keeping Jared at a safe distance, he’s also paradoxically eager to please. Like he’s apologizing the only way he knows how.

Jensen flashes a quick glance towards Jared’s window. “Here?” he asks, hesitantly. “We’re ten minutes from the court building.”

“I’m not coming with you to court today,” Jared says, nearly pleased to watch the small bit of hurt bloom on Jensen’s face. He swallows it quickly enough—nodding at the road ahead, accepting it like Jared knew he would.

He cuts off a black Hummer (the girl doesn’t even bother to honk) and pulls to the side, double-parking.

Jared pats his pants, checking for his wallet, and slides out of the truck. The door creaks as usual, and he turns around on the sidewalk to slam it shut. He can feel Jensen’s eyes on him, tracking every move. “Do you know how long you’ll be?” Jared cracks the door open a little again in order to ask.

“I—not too long,” Jensen says, twists around to peek at his briefcase in the back. “An hour and a half? Two hours tops. All the cases are pretty cut and dry. Kristen will be happy.”

Jared nods. “Tell her I said hello,” he says, and debates whether or not he could find the courthouse alone. He frowns; better not to chance it. “Could you pick me up here?”

He can tell Jensen wants to ask what’s going on, but he doesn’t. And it’s not like Jared wouldn’t tell him, but actually? In this moment? He’s fine with keeping Jensen in the dark. With letting him know how it feels.

“Here.” Jensen nods, and shifts the car into gear. Jared raises up a hand in goodbye, shuts the door for a second time.

He turns around, sucks in a big breath, and starts walking away. He saw what he was looking for—they passed it up—and he tells himself to look demon-like as a tall woman with vicious-looking nails clicks by him in her heels. It’s not like he hasn’t been alone in Hell before, but—

“Jared!”

Jensen’s voice calls him back. Jared turns around to see Jensen leaning out through the passenger window. There’s a funny little crease between his eyebrows as he looks at Jared on the sidewalk.

“Yeah?”

Jensen bites his lip, almost retreats back inside the car. But he doesn’t. "You be careful, all right?,” he calls out, and Jared can tell he’s trying to sound stern. “Be here in one piece when I get back."

Jared tells himself not to snap; the worrying act is so far from cute. "I'll be fine," he says, intentionally level-toned. And then, because he can't help himself, "No talking to strangers, Mom. I promise."

That puts a little scowl on Jensen's face. "Smartass," he says, but it's not unkind. Even a bit fonder than Jared was expecting. "If you're not here when I get back, you're not getting dinner."

Jared wonders what it says about himself that he actually finds that a fairly worrying threat. "I'll be here when you get back," he promises, and makes a shoo-ing motion with his hands.

Jensen nods, takes one last second to pause before zipping back into the truck. The tires don't screech as he pulls away, but he recklessly pushes back into the traffic, cutting someone else off with a few inches to spare. As usual.

Staring after him, Jared wonders how they’ve managed to keep the day so normal. He’s not sure anyone could tell that everything’s changed.

This is exactly why he continues on with his mission.

\--

After ten minutes in the store, Jared knows why Jensen never bothered to get a phone. They're expensive--unholy expensive, which is really saying something. But it's not even the price: Jared would be willing to pay nearly any amount if it meant he didn't have to deal with Circle Ten’s salespeople.

Hellish is too kind of a word.

No, he doesn't want the upgraded, call-from-any-Circle plan. No, he's fine with black. No, he's not interested in paying for constant Circle 3 stock quotes and yes, he's sure. Really, really sure, even.

An hour and not a small amount of teeth-grinding later, he walks out of the store with an overly complicated cell phone.

And now he can do what he's wanted to do since last night.

The phone buzzes in his ear as Jared looks to his left and right, feeling entirely ridiculous and conspicuous. It's not exactly easy to hide 6'+ of angel in Hell, but he did his best—decided to hunker down on a park bench in a ridiculously depressing imitation of city green-space, devoid of people. The paint-chipped garden gnomes glare at him, beady little eyes accusing.

Jared coughs, resettles facing the other side.

And finally, "Hello?"

"Steve?" Jared hadn't realized how much he needed to talk to the guy until he actually picked up. "Sorry to bother you, man. You at work?"

"Well, yeah. But that hardly matters." Now that Jared's listening for it, he can hear the steady thrum of an office through the line -- the buzz of chatter and the clicking of keyboards. "Lay it on me."

"I—” He stops, rubs a hard hand over his face. It’s difficult to let the tension and irk slip out of his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how much of it he was carrying, which is silly: he’s known it’s been building, festering since last night. He blows out a breath, suddenly tired beyond measure. “I don’t even know.”

“Oh, right.” Steve doesn’t even have to confirm. “What happened after the bar? Did he have his little bitch-fit?”

Jared blinks. He hadn’t really let himself imagine what would happen after he called Steve like a little girl, but he was pretty sure tears would be eventually be involved. Maybe a few wall-punches of rage. Something along the lines of acute and vicious pain.

“That’s…one way to put it,” Jared manages. And it stings a little, but he forces himself to think back. He closes his eyes and sees the sharpness of the parking lot lights, the rumble of the truck on the sketchy road. “You left, we left. He took me to see fucking Hellfire and said you’d talked to him.” He swallows. “And then—”

“He gave you the overly dramatic, end-all be-all ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, didn’t he? Jesus fuck,” Steve swears. The office-noise seems less prominent now, like he’s left his desk. “Dude needs some new material.”

“You don’t seem very worried,” Jared says, and checks his watch. The phone-buying took longer than he thought; he doesn’t have much time left before he needs to head back. “He sounded serious,” Jared insists, and some of the worry actually pokes through the hurt. “I don’t know if he’s lying.”

Steve barks out a short laugh. “No, he’s not lying. He really does think he’s guilty as fuck.”  
Blinding frustration swells up in Jared’s chest. His words come out sharp, biting. “But he’s not. I don’t—I don’t even know what he did, but there’s no way. Not from what I’ve seen.”  
A pause. “Look, it’s not my place to tell you what happened. He wants you to know? He’ll tell you himself. But you’re right: he’s down here for the wrong fucking reasons.”

Jared clings to the words, to the truth of them. He takes a deep breath, leans his head into his hand. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You were serious in the bar, right? You want him?”

He aches with it. Despite everything, he aches for it. “Yeah, I know I do.”

“Well!” Steve perks up. Jared can nearly hear the grin in his voice. There’s a snap and a hiss, followed by the sound of chugging. Beer-ish chugging. Steve burps once, then continues. “This is going to be fun, then. You want my advice?”

“Well yeah, man. That why I calle—”

“Ignore him.” Steve says bluntly. “Pretend you never had the conversation. The guy doesn’t know what’s what.”

“Ignore him.” Jared repeats, and finds he no longer has the patience to sit down. He jumps up too quickly; his shirt snags on the edge of the bench, poking a hole in the fabric. Lovely. He fingers it as he walks around, pacing. “What do you mean, ‘ignore him’? I live with the guy.”

“Which will totally play into your favor.” Steve laughs a little laugh, pauses to take another sip from whatever the hell he’s drinking. “Like I said, pretend last night never happened. You’re crazy about him, right? So act like it.”

Jared blinks, thinking it through. He’s not sure he’s hearing it right, but, “Steve? Are you—are you telling me to be a tease?”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Jared doesn’t even have to see Steve’s smile to know it’s plastered on his face.

“I’m supposed to tease him.” Jared repeats dumbly.

“Tease, flirt, what the fuck ever. You know what I mean, so quit making me talk about it. I feel like Dr. fucking Phil.”

Jared lets this information sink in. He tries to picture how it would go and sort of fails on the logistics, but teasing Jensen? Could actually be a pretty amusing form of payback. He tries not to think about what would happen if it doesn’t work, of course.

He can’t believe he’s actually considering it.

“Finished thinking it through, big guy?” Steve’s voice rings out across the line. “I can hear the fucking clogs in your head turning through the phone.”

“Yeah, I—” Jared sort of stumbles, lost for words. His eyes catch on the shadow of a particularly nasty-looking gnome; he’s not a boy scout, but he knows it means he needs to get going. “I think I’ll do it.”

“There you go!” Steve says. “Let me know how it goes. Only, you know. Not too much detail.”

“Thanks, man.” Jared rubs at the back of his neck. “I really do appreciate it.”

“S’what I’m here for.”

Jared hangs up. He’s on a fucking mission.

By the time Jared makes it back to their pick-up point, Jensen's already parked and out of the car. One look at his watch confirms that he's not late -- early, even -- but Jensen's pacing around a streetlamp, glowering at anyone that passes. Jared lets himself enjoy it before he moves closer.

He knows when he's spotted: Jensen's eye narrow even further, taking Jared in head to foot. His eyes catch on Jared's shirt, and he points when Jared gets closer.

"What the hell were you doing?" he says, stabbing at the air. "You're fucking late."

A little bit of ire rises at that, but Jared remembers his new plan. So he smiles. "This?" he says, and picks up the edge of his shirt. He'd almost forgotten about it, but now that he's here, it actually gives him a pretty good idea. "Clumsy, I guess." He knows Jensen doesn't buy it, but that really doesn't matter. "How did the trials go?" Jared cuts him off, already moving towards the truck.

Jensen looks like he wants to say something else, but he shakes his head, banishing the thought. "Fine," he says, if a little gruff. "Added a few fuckers to our collection."

"Great, nice, wonderful." Jared climbs into the truck, ready to put his plan into action. He thumbs at the hole in his shirt until Jensen gets in the other side. He waits until the door closes before he clears his throat. "Take me to the mall."

Jensen's hand pauses on the way to the ignition. He pauses, processing the request, then turns to Jared. "Take you where?"

"The mall," Jared says, and lets a bit of excitement creep into his voice. "You have a mall, right? A hellish mall?" After he says it, he's really not sure. But everyone he's seen has been fairly well dressed. It has to be expensive, of course, but demons have to get their clothes from somewhere. Demon department stores, no doubt.

"You want me to take you to the mall." Jensen still hasn't bothered to turn on the truck.

"Yep." Jared smiles, honest and real and maybe a little bit devilish. "I've been here long enough. My clothes are for shit."

Again, Jensen's eyes narrow. "Are you smoking something? Did you take a pill? What did they give you and how did you pay for it? Because I gotta be honest, man—I'm a little confused. You were fucking spitting nails when I dropped you off."

Jared shrugs. "Had a change of heart, I guess."

Jensen shakes his head once, finally sliding the key home. The truck rumbles to life, and Jared takes a moment to revel in the comfort of the vibrating metal, the way the truck shivers like it’s alive.

“I don’t believe you, you know.”

Jared turns to Jensen, throws his hands up a little in mock defeat. “Okay, okay. You caught me. I? Am a fan of the mall. A big name fan. Now can we go?”

There’s an odd moment of stillness between the two of them, where Jensen’s trying to figure out what exactly is going on, but Jared powers through it with his smile. It’s funny, just like it’s disturbing.

Confusion must win out. Jensen pulls away from the curb, shaking his head. “Clothes shopping,” he mutters, and Jared settles back into his seat.

He really hopes this works.

\--

As it turns out, there is a mall in Hell. Everything’s surprisingly clean and tidy, although there are no maps to speak of. Jensen mutters that they change the store layout on a weekly basis, hoping to throw people off. Hell, apparently, is not interested in catering to its customers.

But it’s not terribly difficult to find what they want. It’s fun, actually, to walk through the aisles, see other people thumbing through the racks. The clothes definitely do not look as comfortable as the ones Jared had stumbled across in Heaven, but they’re fashionable. Sexy and alluring. And while Jared only wanted to come because of his nefarious plan, he feels a disturbingly delighted when he randomly picks out a few shirts and throws them at Jensen, who scowls, but continues to follow him around.

The typical light and airy music of a mall is gone, replaced with classic rock. Jared wonders how wrong it is to be thankful that the majority of awesome bands were just a little bit wicked. It certainly makes for a more interesting shopping experience.

Rock thoughts aside, he can’t forget his mission. Jared hopes Jensen’s wildly obvious indifference means that he isn’t paying attention to the sizes Jared throws into his arms, because most of them are completely too small.

Which is perfect.

Jensen groans when Jared heads for the dressing rooms. “You’re worse than my mother. Or my sister,” he adds glumly, and plops down in a chair near the entrance. “How did I not know this before?”

“Because we’ve never gone shopping before,” Jared points out, and randomly grabs a few of the shirts from Jensen’s arms. “This is new and undiscovered country, dude.”

The chair squeaks as Jensen slouches down. He looks up at Jared with pitiful, woeful eyes. “We’ve gone shopping before,” he says, rearranging the remaining shirts in his lap. The perpetual grin Jared’s been sporting ever since they walked in tugs wider: it’s unbearably cute to see Jensen fussing over folding lines. “Groceries? Water balloons? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Jared shakes his head, adamant. “Clothes shopping is a different animal. A different experience, if you will.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “I won’t,” he says, and huffs out a put-upon sigh. He sounds resigned, and his words actually lose their bite. “We gonna do this, or what?”

Nodding, Jared disappears into the depth of the dressing room. There’s no attendant, of course, no limit to how much he could bring in. Caring about the state of dressing rooms definitely escaped his radar on Earth, but he can’t help but notice Hell spiffs it up. The mirrors are non-smudgy, the lighting warm and forgiving. All in all, it’s such a perfect set-up for someone to think they look better than they actually do. Tugging on a new pair of jeans, Jared thinks it makes sense: Hell would have to appeal to the vain.

Although it doesn’t really matter who Hell’s trying to appeal to when their jeans fit like they do. Jared’s not completely fashion conscious but he’s not fashion ignorant and he knows his sister would squeal if she could see them. His ass looks fucking fantastic.

Not that he cares.

Apparently, Hell got all the decent jean-makers, as well. They’re not the most comfortable things Jared’s ever worn, but he decides to endure. After all, it is Part One of his evil plan. Part Two involves squeezing into a blue shirt that is at least two sizes too small; the sleeves grip into the flesh of his arms, which is all kinds of not-right. And perfect.

Doing this does feel a little ridiculous, but it’s what he’s got. He tells himself he’s acting for greater purpose and a good cause. With a surge of determination, he slaps open the dressing room door and strolls back out into the mall.

“Hey, man.” Jared stops in front of Jensen, plucks at his sleeves. The things are fucking nooses. “I’ll do the dishes if you find this shirt in a bigger size.”

Somehow, Jensen had procured himself a magazine. He stops flipping through (Jared catches a brief glance of swimsuits) and tosses it to the side, never looking up. “Imma make you do the dishes anyw—” He cuts himself off when he looks up, eyes zeroing in on Jared’s chest. The hot stare makes Jared fidget, which actually works quite well with his plan: the fabric stretches even more and it is really is ridiculous how small the thing is, like walking around in a wet sheet. Jared’s half-worried Jensen will immediately call him out on his game, but Jensen’s open mouth is a little encouraging.

Jared tries really, really hard to keep his smile hidden. “Jensen?”

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, Jensen returns. He waves an arm in the general direction of Jared’s pecs. “What the fuck, dude? Did you forget how you looked?”

Jared pulls at the fabric, playing innocent. “How do I look?”

“You’re a fucking Sasquatch!” Jensen says, incredulous. He stands up, setting the clothes that were in his lap onto the chair. “In what alternate universe did you even think that’d fit you?”

“Grabbed the wrong one, I guess,” Jared says, and keeps talking before he can give himself away. “It’s stupid, I know. Can you get me another one? My offer still stands. Dishes, man. You hate the dishes.”

“You hate the dishes,” Jensen amends, but Jared must be getting better at lying: he takes a step away from the dressing room—already prepared to leave, even though his bitch-face is in place. “And what am I? Your personal shopper?”

“Something like that,” Jared does let himself smile, and turns around to head back. He doesn’t go quite as far as to butt-shimmy, but it is a near thing. This game? Is entirely too fun and simple.

Jensen doesn’t say anything else, perhaps too entranced by the power of Jared’s magical jeaned-ass to complain. Jared turns around just before he’s out of sight, happy to catch Jensen stuck in place, staring.

“Thanks,” he says, just because.

Jensen nods a little dazedly, eyes suddenly hungry, and Jared smiles as he keeps walking. He definitely owes Steve a beer.

\--

The rest of the shopping day goes just as swimmingly.

None of the shirts Jared walks out with are nearly as skin-tight as the first he’d tried on, but they still fit well. They’re better in a different way, even, once they figured out what size he actually was. Jared had never tried on so many shirts in his life, but the darkening look in Jensen’s eyes was fairly addicting.

Two beers for Steve.

And it was nice in other ways, too: fed up with following, Jensen eventually ditched Jared’s clothes by the entrance and set off for something of his own. Jared promised to pay, and while Jensen never did emerge from his dressing room to show off, he got a good look at the button-downs and jeans Jensen had picked as they checked out.

Residual anger from the night before still flares at random intervals, but it’s definitely soothed by the new atmosphere between them. Jared catches Jensen staring during the car-ride back, studying Jared’s face like the ridges of his ear will spill the secret to his evil doings.

Jared’s not talking, though. He carts his new clothes into room and bounces back out, flopping down next to Jensen on the couch. His hands itch for some popcorn.

When he recognizes the theme music, Jared lets out a little squeak of pleasure. “I love this show!”

Jensen sighs, not unkindly. He didn’t even bother to go into his room; his bag from the mall is tipped against the couch, stuffed full. “You love every show.”

“Not true,” Jared insists. “Sesame Street gives me the fucking creeps. Big Bird is not a bird: he is an unnatural, feather-like monster. Evilest fucking thing on air.”

Jensen had tensed up when Jared sat down, but he loosens up as they speak. His arm rests on the ridge of the couch, fingers close to Jared’s ear. “You’re strange,” he says, shaking his head. “Very fucking strange.”

“I am merely misunderstood,” Jared corrects, enjoying the banter. He wants to keep it up, but he really does love Mythbusters. They’re trying to beat the breathalyzer, and Jared’s entranced—incredibly pleased that Hell has such an excellent selection of TV shows. The viewing possibilities are nearly endless. For the slothful, he imagines.

They watch the show in remarkably comfortable silence, laughing and taking bets on which myths are actually true and which ones are bullshit. The night passes, until Jared’s stomach starts to rumble.

“Jesus fuck, your stomach.” Jensen pretends to be shocked, like he isn’t already incredibly aware of Jared’s perpetual desire to be fed. “Sometimes I wonder how you even survive the night.”

Jared pats said stomach, grinning over at Jensen. It’s dark now—the light from the TV flickers against the walls in an unpredictable pattern, casting everything in an odd shade of blue. He likes this, being here. It’s nothing new to acknowledge the comfort he finds in this house, on this couch with Jensen. It just hurts, a little, to think about how eager Jensen was to throw it away. Even if he was pretending.

He thinks about how well the day has gone, instead. “What’s for dinner?” he says, completely unashamed.

Jared smiles when Jensen rolls his eyes as expected. “You’re gonna have to fend for yourself. I gotta go pick up a new set of cases. I’ll just find something on my way back, something small.”

Pouting is probably inappropriate, but Jared does it anyway. “Damn,” he says, heartfelt.

That earns him a small, careful laugh. “Idiot,” Jensen says, and it’s probably the fondest thing he’s said all day. Jared tries to bask in it. “I’ll leave out a cookbook. You might surprise yourself.” He pokes Jared once in the arm before getting up, going to the kitchen to fumble through a drawer. Jared can hear the smack of something book-like hitting the table. He winces.

Jensen picks up his briefcase when he comes back, heads straight for the door. “I won’t be long,” he says, searching through his pockets for his keys. “Just—don’t burn down my house. That’d be entirely too appropriate.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Jared drones, and hefts himself off the couch as well. He waves a goodbye before heading into the kitchen, opening the fridge. He’s fairly kitchen incompetent, but he figures he can boil pasta and open a can of sauce. If he feels especially wild and crazy, he might break out the Parmesan.

He leafs through the cookbook as he waits for the water, coming up with a fantastic idea. He ups the beer count for Steve: Jared’s on a fucking roll.

\--

Jared puts his plan into action the very next day—setting his alarm early enough that he can cook Jensen breakfast. He decides to up the stakes by cooking shirtless; it feels strangely heroic to dodge the spitting grease from the bacon, and he has an incredibly vivid delusion that he can woo Jensen with his eggs.

He figures he doesn’t need a cookbook. He’s watched Jensen crack eggs and slap bacon on the skillet more than enough times to count. And Jared’s not completely useless: he knows how to work a toaster.

It’s just, the timing.

At the end of a very frantic, surprisingly stressful half hour, Jared blinks at his mass of plates and steaming skillets, assessing. The eggs may be a bit crunchy. He pokes the bacon worriedly and decides the streaks of black are just a trick of the light. And maybe the toast is a bit toastier than normal, but he was too busy burning the bacon to do much in the way of multi-task.

He can only be thankful that he didn’t attempt to make pancakes.

Sniffing, Jared absently wonders where Jensen’s been hiding air freshener. Surely Hell has such a thing. He bites at his lip, debating whether or not he has enough time to re-do the toast. The kitchen smells a bit burnt. Jensen might not be pleased.

“What the hell did you do?”

Too late.

Jared turns around, sheepish with a knife and a half-scraped piece of toast. He waves it a little in the air, summoning up a smile. “Breakfast!” he says, and plops the bread onto a plate with its friends. “I made you breakfast.”

Still a little bleary-eyed, Jensen’s blinks are heavy. He looks around the room, taking in the stack of dishes in the sink, roaming over to the assorted plates and steaming non-food, and finally landing on the little kitchen table and its pitiful flower.

“There’s a weed on my table,” he says finally, and there’s no way to interpret his voice.

“Um.” Jared shifts from foot to foot, second-guessing his attempt at table decoration. He couldn’t find a vase anywhere, much less a decent flower. All of his grocery-stealing skills had been put to the test that morning, when he’d snuck over to the neighbors’ to steal some of the wee yellow flowers in their backyard. Without a vase, he went for artfully arranging the things on a plate, surrounded by plucked grass. On second thought, perhaps this was not wise. He clears his throat. “I thought it was a flower.”

Jensen looks at it one more time before he shakes his head slowly. “That would be a weed,” he says. “A weed on a plate.”

“Oh.” Jared can’t help the little fall in his voice. He’s not sure what to do, but part of him wants to rush through this breakfast as quickly as possible. Perhaps the burnt things will taste less burnt, that way. “We should eat. Do you—do you want breakfast?” He’s not quite sure what he’ll do if Jensen says no.

Jensen’s mouth opens, ready to speak. He closes it and re-opens it a couple of times, eyes bouncing between the food, Jared’s chest, and the not-flower. He nods, strangely bashful, and throws an arm out, gesturing at the table. “Yeah. Breakfast is good.”

“Great,” Jared says, regaining some ground. He goes to great lengths not to look at Jensen’s face when he scoops the eggs, bacon, and toast on the plate. It’s a bit shameful that he couldn’t handle this, especially when Jensen manages to do it each morning. He tries to give Jensen the most un-burnt bits, scoops the rest onto his own plate. He scurries back to the oven, replacing the skillet, and comes back to the table. Sitting down, he’s a bit distressed to realize that the food looks even less appealing up close. He drags his knife through the eggs and taps at his bacon, chancing a look up at Jensen.

Jensen’s already watching him—a weird, unmappable expression on his face. He doesn’t look pissed, like part of Jared had feared. He doesn’t even look irked. There’s a soft kind of look in his eye that he quickly shutters out, grabbing at his fork. He shovels a heap of eggs into his mouth, chewing fast.

Not even a hint of displeasure at the taste. Jared couldn’t be more shocked. It sets a firmer smile on his face, which gives him the courage to try his own bite.

It’s expectedly horrible, but that doesn’t stop him from powering through a plateful. They eat in silence, until Jared’s eye catches on the centerpiece again. He swallows a bit of orange juice.

“I’m sorry about the weed,” he offers.

Jensen’s in the middle of slathering his toast up with jam. He stops, looks up at Jared. “Oh,” he says, and looks at the weed in question. He shrugs a shoulder and Jared can tell from the look of pitiful concentration on Jensen’s face that the guy’s trying to come up with something pleasant to say. It’s admirable. “It’s. Nice.”

That earns a hearty laugh from Jared. “Dude, it’s okay. You can hate the weed decoration. Scoffing is totally allowed, you know. I suck at cooking.”

“You don’t suck,” Jensen says, grabbing for his orange juice. “You made me breakfast.” He says it like it’s as simple as that, shrugging his shoulder again. And then a wicked smile blooms on his face, eye darting up to Jared’s. “A shitty breakfast, maybe,” he allows, “but breakfast is breakfast.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but catches himself.

Jared picks up, bats away the awkwardness that refuses to completely leave the table. “I am a generous human being,” he says. “Got up early and everything.”

“Sure did,” Jensen laughs finally, and slips the rest of the bacon into his mouth. “And you know, you didn’t do half-bad with the bacon.”

“Lies and falsehoods,” Jared mutters, flicking at his own piece. His rock bacon. “Don’t be so kind.”

“I’m serious, man,” Jensen insists, a bit of smile audible. There’s teasing in his voice. Loud and clear. “Maybe next time you’ll manage not to kill it twice.”

“Ain’t no time like the present,” Jared says, and capitalizes on the moment to run up to the fridge and whip out the extra package of bacon. He was hoping Jensen would offer to do it himself, but now pride is at stake. He takes the skillet he’d been using before and slaps it on the stove, turning the heat up to high. “Watch me, dude,” he calls back to the table, where Jensen is looking on amusedly. “Imma make the best fucking bacon you’ve ever had.”

“Big words,” Jensen grins.

Jared only smiles in response, glad that the morning seems to be shaping up. He likes the way Jensen’s slouched back in his chair, the lazy way his hand plays with the handle of his cup. He seems relaxed and better yet, relaxed with Jared. It certainly seems like the plan’s working, even if Jared already feels like he’s out of ideas.

One thing at a time. He watches the bacon with a hawk-eye, makes a show of standing extra close to monitor. Jensen’s crossed his arms over his flat belly, watching with a pleased little smile.

It’s all well and good until the bacon grease fries his stomach.

“Fucking ow,” Jared bites out, and slaps ineffectually at the burn as he hops away from the stove. Let the bacon go to crisp. He hisses when it feels like the burn flares deeper, the skin of his stomach unbearably hot. It had to be the tiniest little spit of grease, but it fucking smarts.

Cooking shirtless? Not such a heroic idea, after all.

It’s surprising how long the burn lingers, until Jared’s convinced it’s some kind of Hellish trick. He’s not sure what he should do – if he should even bother – when hands pull at his own, tugging back his fingers.

Jared lets Jensen look at his stomach and he feels like a dork to admit it, but the burn dulls a little when Jensen traces a finger around the splatter of red. He leaves Jared for a moment to go to the freezer, popping out an ice cube to shove into a washcloth. Satisfied, he brings it back down to Jared’s stomach, presses it where he should.

Jared hisses at the shocking cold, but Jensen only slaps his side, looks him in the eye. “Big baby,” he says, and he’s close. Jared’s a bit bummed that he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t started appreciating it until this moment. “S’just a little burn.”

He knows he’s making no sense, but Jared shakes his head. “A big burn,” he insists, and it’s softer than he meant. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

Jensen’s eyebrows scrunch at that, like he can’t decide if Jared’s joking. He gets it right, though. “Burning me breakfast,” he nods, and brings up his other hand to rest on Jared’s side.

Jared freezes, not sure what to do. It’s been two days. Two days since the bar and the fucking Hellfire and things couldn’t have worked this quickly, could they? He has faith in his powers of seduction, but hadn’t necessarily considered himself speedy. He’d expected this to take time. He expected to be shut down, expected Jensen to know what he was up to right awa—

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” Jensen says, and his eyes are on the hand with the ice cube. He rubs it softly against Jared’s stomach, against the burn, and Jared can’t feel anything at all. No heat, no cold. Just the rub of the cloth. Jensen stops his hand where it is, finally looking up. “Trying to woo me and all that,” he says, and raises an eyebrow, daring Jared to challenge him.

Jared swallows, moves his own hand to tentatively rest against Jensen’s side. Before he can convince himself not to, he asks quietly, “Is it working?”

“It’s a bad idea,” Jensen says instead, but he doesn’t move away.

“I’m a fan of bad ideas.” Jared’s heart beats a little faster; he grips at Jensen’s side a little firmer, hand on the soft cotton of the shirt.

Jensen doesn’t say anything else. He looks like he’s warring – some great, internal debate behind his eyes -- but he doesn’t move away. The ice cube is left forgotten, dripping, small splashes of water running down Jared’s abs and onto the floor.

“Jared—” Jensen starts, shaking his head. He opens his mouth to say something else, but it never manages to come. There’s a small twitch of his nose before his head snaps to the left. “Shit!”

Jared immediately notices it too: the charcoal, blackened smell of burning. There’s nothing he can do but let Jensen go, watch as he flings the pan into the sink and beats away the smoke with a towel. Jared sighs, knows the moment’s lost. All in all, he thinks it’s safe to say that he’s had horrible luck with food.

Always with the food.

\--

More than a week later, and Jared’s out of ideas. Aside from his moment of weakness in the kitchen, Jensen’s remained steadfast. It’s even worse now that he actually knows what’s going on, what Jared’s trying to do.

Doesn’t mean Jared isn’t going to try.

The awkwardness is gone, at least. There’s no more tip-toeing around the house, no more impassioned pleas for Jared to go home. They have the normality of their days – the trials, the grocery-stealing – and it’s easy enough, but it’s not what Jared wants. Jensen’s sighs and continual eye-rolling aren’t discouraging enough; something’s there. Jared just needs to work a little harder.

How is the problem. At this point, Jared’s beyond shameless. He’s tried working out in front of Jensen, helping Jensen in the yard. More cooking, less burning. Cleaning up the house. Cleaning up the house shirtless. Cleaning up the house shirtless while dancing. And in return he always gets some combination of a laugh, heavy sigh, and/or medical care.

He thinks about it as they walk, exploring some undiscovered part of town. The trials have finished for the day and Jensen’s in a fairly good mood. He’s even whistling, which is almost disturbing.

“Got a few today, huh?” Jared remarks. Jensen’s always got an extra spark when the trials go well. The guy gets some kind of perverse joy out of adding to Hell’s collection.

Jensen stops whistling, looks over and shrugs. “You could say that. Everyone got what they deserved.”

Jared nods, dodging a wayward business woman in a suit. He once tried to stand his ground, but it didn’t matter that he was however many feet of hulking; they ran him down. He learned his lesson, and now he’s an expert dodger. Now his feet keep up a little jig as they walk.

“Want to stop for food?” Jensen asks, and throws up an arm at a sandwich shop on the corner. Little red flags hang outside the door with small tables packed on the sidewalk. It seems cheery enough. “I’m starving, man.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Jared says, and makes a little gesture with his hands. “By all means, lead the way.”

“Dork,” Jensen says fondly, and they walk the rest of the distance to the restaurant. The smell of fresh bread practically beats itself against Jared’s nose and he’d drool if he could, but suddenly he’s too busy looking at the choices. The line’s long—nearly out the door, the entire place is packed with demons, all happily munching away at their sandwiches.

“This is ridiculous,” Jared says, when he’s bumped for the fifth time. “How often do you come here?”

“Not often.” Jensen has to raise his voice a little in the clamor of the small space. They inch up further in the line, both of their eyes on the chalk menu. “Just when I feel like it. Everything’s fucking amazing, but it’s. You know.” Jared looks over to see Jensen shrug, playing it off. “You got your card?”

Jared pats his pocket, notices for the first time how expensive everything is. Sometimes? Hell really is hellish.

They finally reach the register, Jared bumping up against Jensen’s side. The guy working the machine stares at Jared a little longer than he should, like he knows something’s different but can’t quite place it.

“Give me two of whatever you’re getting,” Jared says to Jensen. It’s easier than trying to navigate the myriad of artery-clogging choices. “I don’t even care.”

“Right.” Jensen nods, clears his throat until the man looks over. “Okay, can I have—?”

“You Jensen Ackles?” The man interrupts. For a moment, Jared thinks he might know Jensen on some kind of friend-like terms, but the tone is too firm. The longer than man stares at Jensen, the darker his eyes become. “You are, aren’t you? You’re that fucking Death Trial lawyer, ain’t ya?”

Jensen’s eyes immediately shut down. He turns away, pushes at Jared’s shoulder. “Let’s just go,” he mutters, but Jared’s a little too confused to move. What the hell?

“I heard you’re the one that put me away. Signed my fucking ticket.” The guy’s voice is getting louder, easily noticeable above the dimming roar of the crowd. “Who gave you the fucking right?”

Jensen’s grabbing at Jared’s shirt now, trying to tug him towards the door. “Move,” he says, but Jared stands firm, indignant despite himself.

“What the fuck is your problem?” It’s rare that he actually gets to revel in his height, but Jared uses it to his full advantage now: towering over the guy at the machine, he glowers down at the beady little eyes, the porn-tasche with unclipped ends.

“My problem?” Everyone in the building’s caught on by this point, their voices hushed as they listen. They don’t seem particularly concerned, but the stillness adds to the tension of the moment. “I’m in Hell, that’s my fucking problem. And that guy,” Beady Eyes stops to jab a finger at Jensen’s head, “is the fucker that sent me here.”

“Did you ever think that maybe you deserve it? Being here?” Jared’s voice rises too, despite himself. He barely registers the tug on his arm, the way Jensen’s saying something into his ear. “He was doing his fucking job, man. So chill out.”

The man’s nearly buzzing with rage, but so’s Jared. His eyes flick to Jensen before his hand disappears under the counter, coming back with an oily, fucking monster of a gun. He snaps some kind of lever before he points it at Jared’s face.

There’s a brief moment of panic before Jared catches himself. “Honestly?” he says, because he cannot fucking believe this. Jared huffs out a laugh, bats away at Jensen’s hand on his shoulder. “Are you serious? You’re gonna kill me, man? That’s your first reaction? You whip out a fucking gun?”

“Can’t kill ya,” the man says, speaking at normal volume. It’s easily audible; the only sound left is the sizzling of meat in the kitchen. “But I can blow that pretty face of yours right back to Heaven. And I guarantee it’d hurt like hell.”

For the first time, Jared feels a brick of worry settle in his stomach. He doesn’t care how the man knows what he is, that everyone in the restaurant knows it too. He cares about that one-way ticket. The black metal of the gun is suddenly that much more vicious. Jared blinks at it, unable to move.

“Jared.” Jensen’s voice is warm breath in his ear. “Jared, c’mon.”

Finally, Jared lets himself be moved away from the register. Beady Eye’s gun follows him as they make their way towards the door, and Jared half expects the guy to chase them out of the place. He seems tubby enough to ensure Jared and Jensen a clear victory in a race, but the threat of the gun and what it could do is excellent motivation.

Jared doesn’t realize that he’s holding his breath until they’re completely outside. No one bothers to follow them – no one besides the man seems to honestly care who they are – but Jensen sets up a fast pace away from the restaurant and towards the truck. He’s still got a firm grip on Jared’s arm, and his face it set in a grim line.

Truck in sight, Jared lets some of his panic fade. The metal of the doors seems like a good sort of comfort. Until he’s slammed up against it.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Jensen’s voice is vicious, intensely cruel.

Jared’s surprised enough not to bother fighting back. He’d been expecting this, in a weird way, but he wishes it didn’t have to happen around door handles. Door handles do not feel especially lovely against backs. “I’m sorry,” he says, although he hardly feels it. “Look, I’m sorry, but that guy was—”

“Going to blow your fucking head off,” Jensen grits out, and his face is inches from Jared’s own. “He wasn’t lying, you know. You’d be sent back to Heaven as soon as the bullet fucking obliterated your brain.”

Jensen’s chest is nearly heaving, and Jared reaches out a hand to steady him, but he stops halfway. “I didn’t know,” he offers, and groans a little when Jensen presses harder. He wonders if he’ll even have a spine by the time the handle’s finished grinding against it. “I didn’t know that’s what would happen.”

“You’d be gone,” Jensen says, softer than before, and his voice does not crack, but his words are punctuated with another push to Jared’s shoulder. “That’s all it’d fucking take, Jared.”

Raising up his hands, Jared keeps calm. He can see the wild terror in Jensen’s eyes and instead of finding some kind of pleasure in knowing Jensen doesn’t want him to go, he only feels remorse. Remorse at having put the worry there. “I’m sorry,” he says again, but firm. He slowly eases himself out from under Jensen’s grip, stands up straight. “The guy was being a dick, and.” He stops instead of saying it again, shrugs his shoulders.

Jensen looks at him, the fight and anger leaving him in a breath. His own shoulders slump, his eyes on Jared’s. With a heavy sigh, he brings up a hand to rub at his cheeks, his nose.

Leaving Jared where he is, Jensen climbs into the driver’s seat. Jared joins him, and the silence is nearly electric.

Fuck that noise.

“Here’s a plan,” Jared speaks up. He lets his hand rub at the stitching in the leather seats, scratching at the waxed thread. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking starving. Let’s go home. You can cook me something both amazing and delicious, and then we can go to the bar. Get fucking plastered, hate ourselves in the morning, and move on.”

It could go either way, but Jared’s willing to let Jensen make the call.

Tapping out a rhythm-less beat on the wheel, Jensen studies the back of his own hands. He snatches one quick glance at Jared before he nods, convinced of something unknown.

“Barbeque and beer,” he says, gunning the engine. “Sounds like a fucking plan.”

\--

The bar’s just as wonderful and seedy as Jared remembers. He wonders what it says about himself that he knows the waitresses and bartenders not only by name, by what brand they smoke, what kind of drink they keep hidden for themselves behind the counter.

Shelley winks at him as he leaves, pitchers in hand. It’s far from the classiest drink on the menu, but they’ve already downed a couple whiskeys a piece. Even with the intention of getting blissfully, horribly, fall-down drunk, it’s time for a beer breather.

The liquid sloshes as Jared brings it closer, spilling over his hands. He finally makes it to the table and debates the teasing versus grossness level of pretending to lick the beer off his fingers. Judging from the way Jensen’s already holding out a napkin and frowning, it looks like the decision’s been made for him.

He settles back into the booth, does his best to add to his intoxication level.

The bar’s packed, of course. It’s never been empty: always one of the guaranteed best spots to get lost in a crowd. In some weird twist of fate, they always seem to manage to find a table. The TVs flicker with some kind of brutal sport and, as usual, offer up the embarrassing moments of the damned at occasional intervals.

Jared pours himself a drink, eyeing Jensen across the table. Jensen’s had a lot to drink, but he’s swaying around more than usual. Like he’s letting it affect him.

“The guy was an asshole,” Jared says for the fifth time.

Jensen grabs another glass of beer himself, hand surprisingly steady on the handle. “Yeah,” he says, but it sounds like he’s avoiding the subject.

“He was,” Jared insists, pausing to watch the foam bubble and spit at the top of his glass. “You do your job, Jensen. He deserved what he got.”

Nodding half-heartedly, Jensen shakes his glass a little, swirling the liquid around. He blinks at it a little, looks over at Jared. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Jared says, and suddenly wishes he hadn’t brought it up at all. It’s kind of a morose subject, truth be told, and he’d brought Jensen here with the intention of forgetting the day, not basking in it. The alcohol is and isn’t helping matters: it softens the edges of the world, sets up a nice hum in the back of Jared’s head. Hell’s beer is most definitely vile, but it does its job.

It also makes Jared have to pee.

He stands up, points a finger at Jensen’s face. “When I get back? New subject,” he warns, even though he’d been the one to start it back up again.

He heads off to the toilet.

\--

It’s very odd, the way people keep staring at him. The toilet business went well and all, but Jared doesn’t think he merits the kind of attention he’s getting as he makes his way back to the table. Little snickers float up to his ears as he walks, and Shelley’s not the only one to pause and pinch his ass. The more he looks, the more he’s convinced: people are watching him, and he is supremely confused.

Because what the hell?

His nose scrunches up as he finds his table again. Jensen’s still there (always a positive sign), and he’s sprawled back on his side of the booth, expression a mix of wicked amusement and something else. Something hungry.

More nose scrunching.

“What’s going on?” Jared whispers it, because the volume in the bar is slowly fading out, replaced only by the murmur of the television. Something niggles at the back of his brain, but he ignores it in favor of leaning across the booth. “Is—is everyone still staring at me?”

“Yep,” Jensen says, a little strangled, although his eyes aren’t on Jared at all. They’re fixed on some point in the distance. Studying something. “They’re definitely watching you.”

As sneakily as Jared can manage, he looks down at his fly. Things are zipped and acceptable, and he runs his hands across his shirt, searching for stains. When he can’t find anything, he tries to think of an undercover way to check out his own ass. Only the volume’s lowering even more, and some kind of dialogue pushes through the new quiet. A really fucking familiar dialogue. Jared can almost swear he’s heard it before.

“Oh, Officer. What a big nightstick you have!”

Jared freezes, because no. There’s no way.

“What’s a guy like you doing out on a night like this? It’s illegal, you know. Little cockteases can’t wander around alone.”

“There must be something I can do.”

Oh god, no.

It takes a surprising amount of will for Jared to drag his eyes up and over to a nearby television screen. He really, really doesn’t want it to be true, but Hell is a cruel and wicked place. A little squeak escapes his mouth when he takes in the scene: a smaller, black-haired guy rubbing against a strikingly familiar cop on a shitty set.

“Oh fuck.”

It’s like watching some horrible, self-induced train wreck. Jared’s mouth drops open in horror and he can’t tear his eyes away. Catcalls and jeers call out at him, but he’s too busy wanting to die a second death. Officer Miller is gracious enough to allow Lonely Boy to repay for his rule-breaking in another fashion, of course, and it’s not long before the sounds of face-fucking blare across the bar.

“Like having this dick in your mouth, don’t you? on-screen Jared asks. It doesn’t sound as particularly confident as it should, but dead Jared remembers the night too well. There’d been éclairs on a side table on set, the only thing willing him to continue. “Like choking on my big fucking cock.”

Dead Jared winces. His on-screen voice sounds all sorts of ridiculous and his face is burning. His face is hot and on fire with shame and he’s not sure if he’s ever been more embarrassed in his life—not even after the time with the shellfish. Which, of course, is the entire point.

Of all the moments they could have picked.

Jared slouches down in his seat, covering his face with his hands. He peeks through them occasionally to look at Jensen, whose eyebrows creep higher into his hairline with every passing moment. The guy looks a bit stunned.

It hits Jared all at once—what Jensen’s watching, what kind of needlessly horrible impression it’s imprinting on his brain, how mortifying the slaps of skin sound the second time around.

They have to leave. Like, yesterday.

In a surge of power, Jared stands up, grabs at Jensen’s sleeve. The damage has probably already been done, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to escape, drag Jensen away from Officer Miller’s extremely shady police deal and his crappy dialogue and that ridiculously tight vest and the aviators and the hat and oh my god, Jared hates himself a little more.

\--  
They make it into the truck before the overload of embarrassment does its job. Jared’s reduced to clutching mindlessly at the seat as Jensen drives sloppily, neither of them saying a word. He’s not really sure what to say, quite honestly. It’s not exactly easy to slip such a thing into conversation: ‘So this one time, I was poor, right? I had an application in at McDonalds, but porn seemed like the nobler profession. I fucked a guy and we had donuts between takes. He was an accountant with a diabetic dog.’

Yeah, no.

So Jared focuses on his breathing, doing his very best not to think about what’s flying through Jensen’s mind. Judging by the way the trucks veers across the road, Jensen’s way more intoxicated than he let on. It’d be a little more worrying if they weren’t already dead. And if Jared hadn’t been recently re-introduced to a happily suppressed memory.

What’s really horrible is that Jared totally has the nightstick. Well, had the nightstick, technically. Because if he was going to do porn, he might as well have a souvenir, right? And it’s not like anyone noticed or cared, it was probably cheap, and yeah, these thoughts are a little safer than what actually just happened and—

—the truck’s swerving to the side of the road, the seatbelt digging into Jared’s chest like the vicious strap it is.

“What the hell?” Jared gets out, but that’s all he can manage before Jensen wildly throws the truck into park, practically attacks him against his door. “Oof!”

Jared can hardly process it all—the heat of Jensen’s body is a new and welcome weight, and there must be some kind of disconnect in his brain because Jensen’s kissing him, Jensen is kissing him and his lips are spit-wet and soft between Jared’s own.

Jared's passive long enough to get his bearings and then what's happening—what's really, actually happening—takes over his mind and then it's fucking over.

He presses back, wildly happy to hear Jensen's little moan of appreciation, and then he's kissing as well as he knows how, seeking out Jensen's tongue and sucking, pulling away to kiss his fucking lips which are sinful enough to merit a trip to Hell all on their own.

Downright unholy.

It's too cramped in the truck, not enough space. The huffs of breath and the squeak of the seats is loud in the cabin, and there's no room for professional maneuvering: Jared wants closer, needs to be all over Jensen as best he can, needs to keep kissing him until the world ends. Or at least until they get to a proper bed.

It's what he wants, it's what he's been wanting and the eager press of Jensen's lips and the clawing way his hands grip at Jared's shirt are like a million different Christmas mornings, all sparkly and bright. They grapple at each other, pushing closer, and Jared's not sure what he wants to do first, all the choices laid out in front of him like an impossible menu of a restaurant he never, ever wants to leave.

He shuts his mind off, instead, pinning Jensen up against the driver door. It's fucking ridiculous how little room they have to work with—the side of the steering wheel presses into Jared's ribs, insistent—but it doesn't even matter, such a simple obstacle, and when Jared pulls his mouth away to attack Jensen's neck, he manages to actually hear the words Jensen's been murmuring the whole time.

"Fucking teasing me all fucking week," he's saying, reaching down and rubbing at the inseam of Jared's pants. He groans like Jared's the one doing it to him, and squirms happily when Jared presses even closer. "In the store with those stupid pants, that shirt. Your fucking body, Jay," he growls, and somehow manages to get his hands between Jared's jeans and underwear, rubbing hard. Teasing. "You don't even know what you do to me."

Jared didn't, really, but he's really fucking glad that the truth's coming out. He gasps when Jensen finally manages to get a decent hold, banging his ribs against the steering wheel even harder, biting his lip when Jensen tugs. "Jensen," he says.

"Don't know how hard it's been for me." Jensen's voice sounds wet, wrecked. He breaks off into a deep moan when Jared manages to find his nipple, hand underneath Jensen’s shirt. “Been wanting you for so fucking long.”

Something about that calms Jared, takes down the tone. He’s still rubbing against Jensen as best he can while Jensen strokes—feels like a fucking teenager—but the burst of love that comes when Jensen speaks tempers down the wildness. He suddenly wants to slow down, enjoy what they’ve been waiting so long to enjoy.

But it’s fucking difficult.

“Love your mouth,” Jared can’t help but say, lingering on a solid, long press of lips. He takes Jensen’s jaw in his hand, clutches at it while Jensen tugs on his dick. It feels fucking fantastic and he can’t wait until they get home, when they’ll have a bed, a fucking house to destroy with all the really nasty things Jared plans to do with Jensen’s body.

And wow, Jared’s gonna come. They’re not even naked, his ribs ache like nothing else, and he’s gonna come in his pants.

“Jensen,” he warns, “Jensen, I’m g—”

“Do it,” Jensen eggs him on. His body’s moving slower than before, limbs almost lethargic, but his hand pumps faster, swiping his thumb where it counts. He rubs his nose against Jared’s temple, strangely sweet. “Fucking do it, Jay.”

Jared does, biting back a groan and latching onto Jensen’s neck with just a hint of teeth. He tells himself not to bite, and the strain sets up a rumble in his throat—body seizing tight, wetness coating the inside of his boxers.

“God,” he says, coming down. Immediately, lethargic happiness floats through his veins, weighting down his body. He’s half in the seat-well, Jensen’s legs awkwardly tangled with his own, and he breathes harshly into the curve of Jensen’s neck—too blissed out to bother moving.

But there’s protocol to follow, after all, and the just the idea of making Jensen come—watching his lips part, seeing what he does with his eyes—is enough to spur him into action. He traces a hand down Jensen’s body, rubbing little circles as he makes his way to Jensen’s belt. He’d never even taken it off.

“Wanna suck you off,” he says, voice suddenly louder in the cabin without the white noise of their movement. His playfully nips at Jensen’s side as he shimmies down, and maybe Jensen’s not as big on talking as he’d seemed because he keeps quiet, doesn’t so much as squirm.

He doesn’t move at all, in fact.

When a worrying thought comes to mind, Jared stops trying to pretzel his way down, actually looks up at Jensen’s face. “Jensen?” he asks.

The snore is answer enough.

Jared sighs, but he can’t really find it in himself to feel annoyed. He’s not even sure if Jensen came, and yet in a fairly cheesy way, the look of exhausted peacefulness on Jensen’s face is good enough of a reward. It really wouldn’t be appropriate to spout off any poetry (Jared’s not even sure if he knows any poetry), but he feels like the moment merits something.

He presses a quick kiss to Jensen’s neck, lips lingering.

“Thanks,” he says, to no one at all.

\--

Jared drives them home, just drunk enough that he catches himself swaying in and out of the lines. He'd woken Jensen up enough to move him to the passenger seat. There was a faint moan of protest when Jared insisted he'd drive, but it only lasted as long as it took for Jensen to hum something sleepy and collapse against the window.

By some crazy miracle, Jared not only manages to remember the way home, but drag Jensen inside to his bed. A quick change of boxes and he's back, flopping down on the bed.

He wonders what tomorrow will bring, and decides he doesn't care. For now, this is awesome enough.

\--

"You smell like ass."

"Blerg." Jared's not pleased at the sudden change of events, namely: waking up. He was having a really fantastic dream about a lake and a dragon and Jensen in purple leather chaps and it was freakishly vivid. And wonderful. "Sleep," he moans, and wills himself to dream again.

"And I'll say it again. You smell like ass and you're in my bed." In the very small, slightly awake portion of Jared's brain, he knows that Jensen's dong his best to sound stern. There's a softness there, though, that only encourages him to seek out the chaps. Purple chaps. Purple chaps and dragon riding.

He tries communicating this to Jensen by snuggling deeper into whatever pillow he's face-first on, rubbing his nose in the softness. But Jensen, it seems, will not be swayed.

"You need a shower," he orders, but he follows it up with a quick rub on Jared's head. "Think about my sheets."

"Your sheets?" That's silly enough to merit an eye-opening. "You're honestly worried about your sheets?"

Jensen smiles, careful but bright. "Not really," he admits, "but we do need to head out." And when Jared scrunches his eyebrows, adds, "Trials today. We're gonna be late."

Jared moans a pitiful moan and wills himself to get up. Rubbing at his eyes, it hits him all at once. It'd seemed so normal to wake up in Jensen's bed, but this? This is definitely a first. His mind flicks back to the night before, tracing the origins of his headache and the disgusting film in his mouth. Alcohol, he thinks. Alcohol followed by embarrassing moments followed by mortification followed by getting in the car and--

His eyes snap open, suddenly wide awake. Jensen's on the edge of his bed, already dressed. He looks at Jared like he knows exactly what Jared's thinking, like he's already thought it through himself.

Jared shuffles around in the bed, fiddling with his own hands. What the hell is he supposed to say? 'Hey! Last night was awesome, and I'd really like to do it again. Only properly, you know. You and me and a bed and no passing out without mind-bending orgasms. You game?'

It's encouraging, though, the way Jensen doesn't move away. It's a bit worrying that he's sitting on the side of the bed, but his hand doesn't pull away. It sits between them, open and offering. Jared honestly wonders if he's this lucky.

"Are you...?" He stops, not sure how to put it. He scoots up further in the bed, can't help but notice that the sheets are insanely smooth and soft. No wonder Jensen refused to share. "About. With the.” This isn’t working.

“Am I cool with you never mentioning that you worked in porn?” Jensen scratches at his own neck, pretending to ponder. “I don’t know. I kind of wish you would have told me sooner. Think of the bragging rights I’d have, living with a porn star.”

Jared blinks. “Oh,” he says, still trying to feel out the tone of the morning. “Well, it’s not exactly easy to slip it into conversation.”

Jensen laughs, bounces a little on the edge of the bed until he shoots up, standing. “Fair enough,” he says, and lets his arms hang at his sides while he looks down, assessing.

Jared’s not sure if he wants to squirm and talk or do a little bit of both. He decides to embrace the quiet instead, wiggling his toes under the sheets. What if Jensen hadn’t meant it? What if everything was just a stupid, silly accident with an accidental orgasm and acute embarrassment, what if—

“My sheets, Jay,” Jensen says, and the dude’s a fuckin ninja because he’s right there, and Jared starts a little, eyes caught in Jensen’s own.

“Your sheets,” he repeats.

Jensen nods, slow and grave. “That’s right,” he says, and bites his bottom lip once before moving forward. He kisses Jared, grabbing his lower lip and sucking lightly. It’s quick and short—practically a glorified peck—but his eyes are still warm when he pulls away.

Then he shoves at Jared’s shoulder, a familiar grin on his face. “My fucking sheets,” he says once more, and turns to head out the door. “No time to jerk off in the shower,” he calls back. “’Cause we’re gonna be late.”

Jared blinks after him, stunned.

This could be a fairly wonderful day.

\--

 

"You look especially lovely today," Kristen says, setting down her briefcase. It wasn’t the first time she’d beaten them to court, but it was the first time she’d beaten them to court because they’d been held up by attempted groping in the kitchen.

Jared intends for this to happen more often.

"Thanks," he says, pleased that he might look at least a little bit different. Everything’s changed, after all. He eyes the stack of files that Jensen pulls out of his briefcase, judging how long they’ll be stuck in court. It's a fairly small stack, all relatively thin: everyone must have died young and boring.

It's crazy, the things he thinks about.

"Anytime," Kristen says, still cheery. She smiles as she sits down, pulls a water bottle out of her purse that she tends to sip on. "Want to get started?"

"That would be great," Jensen says, and Jared secretly enjoys the lack of usual bite in Jensen's snark. He’s still professional, though—looks more put together and centered than Jared feels. Jared shifts in his chair as he stares, wishing for the first time that he could have his own table. Something a bit more neutral, somewhere where he wouldn’t be so tempted to reach over and bi—

"Wonderful." There's a small pause as Kristen pulls out the first file, flipping it to the first page. "Henry Dover from Miami, Florida. Died at 17. Was a student. I should note that he—"

"Take him." Jensen's already got his hand out for the file, ready to sign. "Hand it over. The kid died during a heart transplant, I know. I read."

Kristen smiles a whiter than white smile. "Why thank you, Jensen. I'm glad we see eye to eye."

Jensen glares at her, but resists making any threats of bodily harm. Even considering the night and day he and Jared have had, Jared's actually quite surprised. Sometimes Jensen is capable of remarkable self-restraint.

"I'm doing my job," Jensen says simply, "Kid didn't do anything wrong."

"Indeed." Flicking her hair back over her shoulder, Kristen picks up the next file. She scans it for a minute before her eyes narrow, flick up at Jensen in a worried little glance. "Did you want to save the next for last, or...?"

Jared looks over at Jensen, who's busy giving the file a once-over. "I looked at this last night," he says, and it's then that Jared notices the bags under his eyes. The heavy grayness of them. How much had he actually slept? "What are we even going to argue about? There's no need to wait."

It's completely unlike Kristen to pause, but she does. "We should wait," she says, eyes stuck on a certain line. "Or even next time? Because I don't mean this in a bad way, honey, but the pair of you really do look exhausted. Maybe—"

"Kristen," Jensen says, setting his pen down. His eyes are challenging and suddenly stressed and Jared feels just the slightest bit of charged tension seep into the room. "We're doing it now."

She sighs, defeated. "Fine, but—"

"Angela Normandy," Jensen talks over her protests, "Died due to complications from a car accident at age 34 in Chatam, Virginia. Worked at the local grocery store. And she's one of ours."

Again, Kristen's silent. She puts down her copy of the file, brings her hand to her nose, pinching the bridge. "Jensen, no," she says, quiet but firm. "I know what you’re focusing on, and I’m going to ask you to look at the aftermath. Where she was, what she’d been through."

Jared looks between the two of them, eyes bouncing back and forth. There's always a bit of tension in court (it wouldn't be court with Jensen without it), but it's sharper, somehow. He feels like he doesn't understand the stakes. What did the woman do?

Looking at Kristen, Jensen's already shaking his head. "No," he says, voice deadly calm. "You're not getting her."

"It wasn't done maliciously!" It's amazing to Jared how quickly bubbly Kristen disappears when she talks business. He can tell she pleading for some kind of understanding, but that she already knows it's hopeless. "You can't have her. What happened was impossibly wrong, Jensen. Inexcusable for any belief system to allow. And you can have the father. I’ll sign off the second his file touches my desk and you can have him and he’ll deserve whatever horrible punishment you can dream up and more, but you can’t have the mother. You just can’t.”

"Since when," Jensen’s voice drips acid, "do you defend a parent’s right to murder their child?"

Jared's eyes widen. He immediately looks to Kristen, silently asking for an explanation, because what the fuck are they talking about?

She's shaking her head. "Jensen, I can't."

"You can't," he repeats tonelessly. "What the fuck are you saying, Kristen?"

Her pen clatters to the floor when she raises her hands helplessly. "I'm saying you can't have her! Angela was lied to and she was sick in all the ways that matter and she hardly had a choice. In a perfect world, her child would have lived a long and happy life."

"Yeah.” Jensen spits. “And now she's dead."

"Dead and in Heaven," Kristen amends, and leans down to the floor to grab her pen. She twirls it in her fingers in a nervous tick while she talks. "And she shouldn’t be. I don't—I don't know what you want me to say."

Jared doesn't know what to make of Jensen's face. Silence looms over them all, and not for the first time he begs for the tick of a clock. The tap of a finger. He rubs at his own leg instead, and tries to figure out if he should steal Jensen's pen before he jabs it into Kristen's tongue. He's stock still, though, and it's only when his jaw ticks that Jared realizes he's been thinking. Debating. In one swift moment, he goes back to his briefcase.

"What are you?" Kristen leans forward across her table, trying to get a better look. Her eyes widen when Jensen pulls out a small green pad of paper. A dangerous-looking pen. "Jensen, no."

"What did you say?" Jensen gets out, and he's already furiously filling out the form, checking boxes and looking back at his sheet to copy down the correct information. "The last time this happened, Kristen, what did you say?"

Slumping back in her chair, Kristen looks like she wants to argue, but she's already going into her own briefcase, pulling out a very similar pad of paper. "I said I would," she says, "but you know what I think about it."

"And you know I couldn't give a shit." Jensen pauses long enough to say the words, and Jared scrunches up his eyebrows. There's something biting at the back of his brain--some earlier memory of the courtroom--but he can't quite relate it back to the moment. Jensen's being an ass, but he's always been a bit of an ass in court. As much as Jared hates it.

Despite his furious scribbling, Kristen finishes filling out the form before Jensen does. She pushes it to the edge of her desk with a perfectly manicured nail, and shoots a helpless look at Jared. "I wish you could help him understand," she says quietly.

Jared opens his mouth, already lost for words, but then Jensen's snatching up Kristen's green form and stuffing it into a similar but blue envelope. Kristen and Jared both watch as he stands up, leaving the desk to walk towards the mailbox at the front of the courtroom. He lifts up the ancient metal door and slips the envelope inside. And then he waits.

Jared can't help it: his muscles tighten, prepared for some unknown kind of force to sweep through the room. Something intimidating and powerful. So he squeaks a little when Kristen leans over, puts her hand on his arm.

"Did anything happen last night?" she asks again, blue eyes searching Jared's face. "I've never seen him like this."

Jared shakes his head, lost. "I don't--" He stops, remembering Steve's words in the bar. Illegal. Immoral. Not allowed. Spilling the beans about his little non-relationship to a Heavenly lawyer is probably one of the worst ideas he's ever entertained. He swallows the words instead, deflects. "What's going on?"

She sighs, glances back at Jensen, who's still at the front of the room. His body is turned towards a door Jared hadn't noticed before, and he's poised. Waiting.

"He called for Reanimation," she says, defeated. "Do you remember what that is?"

Again, something clicks in the back of his brain. But he can't place it, even though the term sounds familiar. "No," he says. "You guys have talked about it?"

"Threatened it," Kristen sighs, and goes to fiddle with the necklace at her throat. "They'll be here any minute," she says, and before Jared can ask, goes on. "Reanimation? It's just what it sounds like. When we filled out the forms--the green paper--we asked that Angela be preemptively animated."

Jared scrunches his nose, always glancing back up at Jensen. Still waiting. "So you're waking her up?"

"Ahead of schedule, yes." Kristen confirms. When Jensen starts walking towards a door, she starts speaking faster. "In certain cases, when neither lawyer can decide on an outcome, we're allowed to Reanimate—ask the person where they think should belong."

Jensen’s at a door now, ear pressed to the wood.

Jared’s heart picks up, even though Kristen looks more resigned than frightened. He has no idea what’s about to come through the door—what shape Angela’s going to be in—and Jensen’s hand moves towards the handle. Ready to open it.

“What’s—what’s going to happen?” He asks to distract himself, but he doesn’t even look at Kristen. His eyes are on Jensen’s hand, the knuckles and the brass they clutch. “What happens after you bring her in?”

One quick glance confirms that Kristen’s looking at Jensen too. “We tell her where she is,” she says, and it sounds like she’s dictating facts. “We explain her crime in question and ask her where she thinks she deserves to be. Questions allowed, from either party.”

“What did she do?” Jared whispers.

Kristen turns to him, eyes sad. She opens her mouth, but it’s too late: Jensen’s already tugging at the door, wood groaning in torment.

\--

Considering how she died, Angela looks fairly normal as she stumbles into the room. Her head’s attached, for one—spinning this way and that, eyes going wide as she takes in the height of the walls, Jared and Kristen at the desks.

“Where am I?” she asks, looking at Jensen. Even though his face is set in a terrible scowl, he’s guiding her gently by the elbow, directing her towards the tables. “The woman in the room, she—” Angela stops, pales a little. She tries to catch Jensen’s eye and fails. “She said I was dead.”

“She wasn’t lying,” Jensen gets out, and leaves her standing before the two tables. Jared could reach out and touch her, if he wanted, but he stays where he is.

Kristen shoots Jensen a sharp look as he settles down again. “That’s right,” she says to Angela, voice soft and calming. “And did she tell you where you were?”

Angela shakes her head, frizzy blond curls spilling down around her face. “She did, but I don’t understand. I’m at trial?”

“This is a court,” Jensen says, and Jared watches as he clears his desk of everything but Angela’s file. He grabs a notebook out of his briefcase, sets it near the middle with a pen. “And since you’re the only one here? Yeah. It’s safe to assume you’re on trial.”

“Jensen,” Kristen scolds. She stands up, hand on the extra chair at her desk. “Angela, would you like a seat?”

Jared doesn’t have to look to know that Jensen’s frowning at that, but Kristen ignores any and all bad looks. She scoots her chair out to Angela, gestures down at the wood with a smile. And Angela does sit, throwing a thankful nod to Kristen as she moves away. Her eyes flick at Jensen and Jared, already distrustful.

When Kristen sits back down, Jensen clears his throat. “Let’s get started,” he says, and immediately does. “Your name is Angela Normandy?”

“Yes,” the woman whispers.

“At the time of your death, you lived in Chatam, Virginia. Is that correct?”

“Yes, I.” Jared feels a strong surge of pity when Angela eyes suddenly go wet, swelling up with tears. It’s clear she’s overwhelmed. Confused. “My kids? Could you tell me about my kids, are they—?”

“Chris and Mary are still alive,” Kristen says, voice still tender. “And they’re fine. But—”

Jensen interrupts. “You understand that you’ve been Reanimated, that you are currently on trial in order to determine where you deserve to spend your afterlife?” He sounds stern and unforgiving and Jared wonders what the hell she’s done.

Angela’s eyebrows pinch together, chest moving faster as she thinks it through. “Spend my—Hell?” She squeaks it out, eyes flashing between Jensen’s hard stare and Kristen’s patient gaze. “If I deserve to be in Heaven or Hell?”

“Yes,” Kristen says, cutting off any remark Jensen wanted to make. “We just need to ask you a few questions. And I want you to keep in mind that you are the final judge; you determine the outcome of what happens here. We’re only here to help—to guide you, ask you things about your life. Things we’re concerned about. Does that make sense?”

“Oh god,” the woman hides her face in her hands, fingers digging into her skin. She’s breathing just as fast as before: hard and labored, now thick with tears. “It does,” she manages to say. “It makes sense.”

“In that case,” Jensen speaks up, elbow bumping Jared’s. “Tell us about Lynne.”

The hands are pulled away, revealing a blotchy face. Damp cheeks. “Lynne?” she asks, hesitant. “My Lynne?”

“Lynne,” Jensen confirms, and his voice sounds like a fucking shark in the water. “The daughter you killed on October 14, 1996.”

Jared’s eyes snap to Jensen, to the hard lines of his face. His voice sounds destroyed—ripped apart by rage that’s evident in every muscle, every limb. Jared’s heart clenches at it, and fuck the rules. Fuck Steve’s warning and how utterly senseless it would be to ruin everything in court: he wants to reach out, find a way to make it disappear.

“Killed her.” Angela repeats. She drops her shaking hands. “She—she died of pneumonia.”

“Because you refused to let her see a doctor.” Now Jensen’s the one breathing fast, gripping at his pen, knuckles white.

“We didn’t—” Angela turns to Kristen, looking for support. She sounds panicked. “I didn’t want to kill my daughter.”

Kristen clears her throat, shoots a worried look at Jensen. She eyes his hands as she speaks, likely praying they stay put. “Why didn’t you take her to a doctor, Angela?” she asks, voice measured. “Just so we’re clear. Let Jensen know.”

“It wasn’t what I believed,” Angela whispers, eyes pleading. Her voice is wet again, clogged with snot and tears. “Our community, you—you don’t understand. They told us it was wrong.”

“She was nearly 16,” Jensen says, murderous. “She was excited about getting her license, the week before she started coughing. She loved her family. She loved to paint, wanted to grow up to be an artist.”

The woman sobs. “I know,” she says, shaking her head. “I kn—”

“Easily treatable,” Jensen goes on. He digs his pen into the wood of his desk as he speaks—grinding it down, making new marks. “One trip to the doctor is all she needed. A little medicine. She would have been fine. Her body wouldn’t be rotting in the ground.”

“Jensen!” Kristen slaps her hand on the table. “Stop it.”

“You killed her,” Jensen says again, adamant. “And murderers belong in Hell.”

Jared doesn’t let himself think: he reaches out a hand and settles it on Jensen’s knee. He has no way to read what Jensen’s saying, but he’s not imaging the fierceness of Jensen’s questions. Or the way his whole body thrums, wound tighter than any case before. Working the trails never fails to stress Jensen out, but Jared has the sense that this is something new. A stress he's never seen.

The woman's sobbing, letting her hands clench at the chair. Her tears fall heavy on her face and she looks horrible, ready to break down. "I loved her so much," she says, like she's willing Jensen to understand. "You'll never know how much I loved her."

"And she died. That’s all I need to know.” If he's noticed Jared's hand on his thigh, he hasn't said anything. He stops fiddling with his pen to grab at her file, fingers nearly ripping at the pages. "You let her die and you watched."

"Angela," Kristen reaches out a hand towards the woman, tentative. But she pulls it back, face at war. "We just want to know how you feel. How you felt about Lynne's death."

"How did I feel?" The woman spits, snot streaming from her nose. She looks stunned. "How did I feel when my baby girl died? How can you--?" She looks from Kristen to Jensen, skipping over Jared like she instinctively knows his voice doesn't count. Her voice hardens. "I wanted to die, myself. She was the best of me, and then she was gone."

"She didn't have to die," Jensen growls out. He knees shifts forward in Jared's palm, pushing unconsciously. "You watched as she suffered and then you pushed away the responsibility on some kind of faith."

Angela takes in big, heaving breaths, shaking her head. "You're wrong," she says, and points her finger at Jensen before he can bristle. "You've never been more wrong."

Jensen growls, deep in his throat. Jared tightens his hand. "You're denying that you killed her?"

"I never--" The woman drops her eyes, pulling at the ends of her hair with her hands. "You have to understand that I never meant to, I never wanted to. I wasn’t allowed to believe anything else would work. My husband was so sure," she says, and her eyes are misted over with more than tears. There’s a new anger in whatever she’s remembering. "Lynnie was sick and it went against every instinct I had to keep her where she was. He stopped me when I tried to get her out."

Jensen's pen slaps against the table. "How many times do I have to say that she's dead? She died, Angela. Died. Whatever higher power you believed in? Wasn't the answer. And you don't get to push off the blame."

"Angela," Kristen interrupts, and Jared throws her a grateful look. She feels like the only thing holding them all together, some kind of sane voice in the madness. He has no way of following, no way of knowing what's going to happen. He only knows he doesn't want to be the one to make the call.

"Angela, I just want you to remember you're in charge here, all right?" Kristen repeats, leaning forward. "Jensen can ask anything he wants, but you have the final say. We just want to know what you think you deserve."

"You said that before, you--" The woman blinks at Kristen, hands furtively trying to wipe away at her face. "That I'm in charge. I don't even know what that means."

"At the end of all this, we're going to ask you where you want to go. That's what you need to decide." Kristen chances a look at Jensen. "We couldn't decide, and that's why we Reanimated you. We needed you."

"So tell us, then." Jensen's voice is cool, but it's shaking. "What do you think you deserve. You killed your child. You let her rot away in her bedroom and hoped she’d magically get well. She told you about her dreams all the time, what she wanted to do. And you didn't let it happen."

The woman breathes heavily, still staring at Jensen with red eyes. Then she looks everywhere: at the ceiling, at the wooden floor, at the door she came through. When she speaks, her voice trembles. "I did kill her," she says, and has to stop to wipe at her eyes. "Everything you've said is true, I--I hoped. I was only allowed to hope for her to get well and she didn't. She died in her bedroom and she was only 16. Just a baby." She nods at this, confirming. Then a fresh wave of tears come. "I'm not--I'm not sure what it says in those files of yours, but I know I was wrong. I know I did wrong."

Jared can hardly breathe himself in the tightness of the room. He's still clutching at Jensen's knee, and every ounce of his concentration and will centers on the woman before him. On the cadence of her words, the tears in her throat.

"I did so much wrong, believing what I did. I'm sure your file says that. But it--it doesn't say how I hated myself?" She glances towards Kristen, who's looking at her table, at her file. Avoiding Jensen's eye. "I couldn't breathe for months. If it wasn't for my other kids, I don't know what I would have done." She stops, lifts her shoulders up to let them drop. Lets out a pained sigh. “I changed. I divorced my husband, took my kids away. Got help."

Like so many other times in court, Jared wishes he could see the file himself. He's glad in a way, that he can't--he knows there must be so much to interpret. He wonders what Jensen sees when he looks at it.

"After Jack was gone, I did my best. Took my kids out of that school and tried to start a new life, brought them to doctors. I’d always been told they were evil, you know? Hospitals. But I couldn't let it happen again."

"Amazing that it took a child dying for you to see the light," Jensen drones. His knee presses again, harder than before. "If you hadn't believed what you did, if you hadn't been so fucking senseless then you'd be the first in your family to die."

"I know." The woman's voice is broken. Shattered as she speaks. "I'll never stop hating myself. No matter where I am, I never will." She stops, then. Looks to Kristen. "Is she happy?"

"Lynne?" Kristen asks, and doesn't stop for a confirmation. "Yes, she's--she's in Heaven."

"Oh," Angela sighs a terrible sigh, but she smiles for the first time. Honestly. "That's wonderful."

"And you think you deserve that?" Jensen speaks up. He closes his file, pushes it away, and Jared doesn't know if it's some kind of strategy, but he hopes it means they're nearly over. He hopes it means they're almost done. "You think you deserve to be in Heaven after what you did?"

The woman's silent, eyes on the floor as she thinks. Her head starts to shake before she opens her mouth, and Jared holds his breath. "If you're asking me if what I did was wrong, then I have an answer. I was wrong. I deserved the suffering I felt, but I—” She looks up at them, eyes wrecked and weeping. “I made a mistake, marrying Jack. The worst kind of mistake and I didn’t realize what I’d gotten myself into until it was too late. His belief controlled every aspect of our lives.”

Jensen seems satisfied, reaches into his briefcase to pull out another sheet of paper. Red, this time. He fills in the blank spaces as quickly as he can, voice suddenly calmer. Confident. “Now that you’ve admitted it, I know you’ll make the right choice,” he says, and marks a ‘X’ on the only remaining blank line on the paper. “It’s time to sign.” He pushes the paper at her, pen poised.

The woman blinks at it—the pen and the paper, and flicks her eyes over to Kristin, who coughs.

“Is that what you want, Angela?” As always, Kristen’s voice is calming. She leans forward in her chair, offers her hand out to be held. The woman grips at it, squeezing tight. “It’s your decision.”

The woman nods, takes her other hand to pat at Kristen’s before dropping them, folding her hands back in her lap. Jensen’s still holding the piece of paper, expectantly waiting. Sitting in his chair, Jared wonders how often this happens. How often Jensen calls for Reanimation and justice.

“I know where you think I belong,” she says finally, addressing Jensen. “I know what you want, but I won’t sign.”

Jensen’s pen falls to the floor, clattering in the heavy quiet. “What?” he asks, dangerously.

“I said I won’t sign.” She sounds firmer this time, nodding her head. “It sounds…it sounds horrible, but I forgive myself. Now I want to see my little girl.” Looking up at Jensen, she purses her lips, apologetic.

“This is your decision?” Kristen’s the only one brave enough to speak. Jared focuses on the blue of her eyes; he feels like he’d be risking post-death decapitation if he decided to take a peek at Jensen. “You believe you deserve to go to Heaven?”

“I do,” the woman says, and her voice is shot. She sounds convinced, but still equally hurt. She manages to spare another glance at Jensen. “I’m sorry.”

Jared can’t look anymore. He keeps his eyes on the table, catches a glimpse of Kristen’s small hand as she digs into her briefcase, pulls out a crisp blue sheet of paper. He counts his breaths as she fills in the necessary lines, and draws his hand back from Jensen when she signs. It’s finished.

“I’ll escort you back,” Kristen says kindly. “If you could just wait for me over there?”

The woman must nod, because she doesn’t say anything else. The small clatter of footsteps breaks through the quiet, and Kristen quickly picks up any errant papers, shoving them back into the folders where they belong.

“Jared,” she says, and puts a hand on his shoulder. Her voice is low, secretive. “Could you—? You can leave. We’ll worry about the rest of the cases another time. Tell Jensen I’m sorry.” She pats his shoulder once more before leaving, following after the woman. There’s the click and the groaning of wood before they disappear.

Now it’s just the two of them.

With 100% surety, Jared can honestly say he has no idea what to do. There’s about a billion and one things that could happen in the next five minutes and he has no idea which one is more likely than the next.

He turns to Jensen, eyes slowly skating up the chair, finally brave enough to look at Jensen’s face.

Of all the things he was expecting, Jensen’s bitter calm was not one of them. Jared had dreams of hiding the sharp knives at home, maybe wrapping Jensen in a sheet until he calmed down. From the look on Jensen’s face, this isn’t necessary.

He only looks tired, bone-deep and weary. His thumb teases the edge of the red paper he had for Angela, picking at it like a scab. Jared starts counting the cracks in the table, just for something safe to do.

Then Jensen clears his throat. “Let’s just.” He lets the paper drop, brings up a hand to rub at his temple. Sighs. “Let’s just go home.”

Still supremely confused, Jared nods. He probably shouldn’t say it, but, “I can drive, if you want.”

Like he suspected, Jensen shakes his head, starts to rip up the red paper in single, long pieces. “I’m driving,” he confirms, and that’s that.

Home it is.

\--

The car ride home is just as awkward as Jared thought it would be; for the hundredth time, he wishes the radio worked. But it’s appropriate, in a horrible way. The silence is its own kind of punishment.

“Groceries are getting low,” Jared says, just to speak. He discovered Jensen’s stash of fireworks the other day, hidden in the backseat. For the impromptu stealing session, he imagines. “We could—”

“We’ll use your card,” Jensen says, voice still eerily calm. “And we’ve got plenty of vegetables.”

Jared frowns at that. He’s not anti-vegetable or anything, but that means Jensen’s going to cook that one dish: the one with the spices and the tofu and he thinks they’re also out of milk, which means it’ll be harder to hide his distaste. It’s the one dish of Jensen’s that Jared can barely tolerate.

He is not, of course, going to mention that tonight.

“The movies?” Jared tries again, casting his mind back to the sign outside the theater. “I think Friday the 13th is playing. Jason lives again!” He wiggles his fingers, trying to drum up some enthusiasm. “I know you’re a fan of the slashers.”

“Jared, stop.” Jensen doesn’t snap. Again, he just sounds incredibly tired. “I know what you’re doing and I can’t—you just need to stop.”

“Right,” Jared says, lifting his hands in mock-defeat. “This is me. Stopping.”

Instead of wallowing in the quiet, Jared tries to occupy his time by staring out the window. They are not, even though Jensen suggested it, driving home. He knows that much. Despite his fake enthusiasm with Jensen, Jared’s totally lost. He doesn’t know what today means—for Jensen or for both of them—and until Jensen speaks up, he’s just going to have to wonder.

There’s a faint stab of familiarity, just before Jared does manage to recognize where they are. The high grass and the black pebbles look surprisingly different in the daylight: less shiny and oddly dull. Less impressive.

He can’t help but notice a pattern here, in this place that Jensen chooses to go. It’s gotta offer him some kind of comfort, and Jared’s willing to roll with it. He’s even kind of excited to see how Hellfire looks in the daytime (Is it just as tall? Just as bright?) when Jensen stops the car, weeds batting against the sides.

Throwing the truck into park, he speaks up before Jared can say a word. “I never told you what I did to come here,” he says, voice inflectionless. “Never said what I did to deserve to live in Hell.”

“No,” Jared answers, and feels suddenly, completely unprepared for the conversation that’s apparently at hand. Of course he’s wanted to know. Of course he’s always been terrified to find out.

Jensen nods, even though he already knew the answer. “Moved out of my parents’ house when I was 22. Out of college and all that.” He pulls the keys out of the ignition and fiddles with them in his hands. “Couldn’t afford much, but I had a crappy job. Enough to pay the rent on a crappy house.”

“Where?” Jared doesn’t know why he asks.

“Texas,” Jensen says, thumb rubbing against the hard ridges of a key. “And my neighbors were for shit, you know? Ignorant. But the one guy, he—” Jensen stops, swallows something down. “He had a little girl. Emily.”

Jared keeps quiet, waits for him to continue.

Jensen nods to himself, like he’s summoning up the strength. “She was a cute kid. Always saw her playing in the yard, I don’t know. Kid stuff. But her fucking dad, he.” The skin turns pink with strain as Jensen clutches the key. “He was a fucking drunk. He hit her, abused her. I called the cops I don’t know how many times. Nothing ever happened.”

“They never took him away?” Jared finds that hard to believe, incredulous.

“Never,” Jensen confirms. “He’d shape up for a week or two, be back at it the next. I had to—I had to do something.”

“You killed him?”

Jensen’s head snaps over, eyes sharp. “I wish I fucking did,” he snaps, voice like venom. “Was too late though. I heard him, one night. Drunker than the rest. I told myself I’d go over there the next day and do something about it, but.” He shakes his head, huffs out a sad laugh. “The cops came the next day. Dude had skipped town when he’d killed his daughter.”

Jared has no idea what to say. He’s hurt by the story, but he’s also confused. “But if you didn’t kill him, then—”

“It was my fault she died,” Jensen says, and it’s like Jared’s not even in the truck. Like Jensen’s repeating something he’s whispered to himself for the past hundred years. “If I’d done something sooner, she wouldn’t be dead.”

“Jensen,” Jared tries to will all the hurt, all the compassion he feels into his voice. There’s no way to say what he wants to without sounding like a Lifetime movie; he keeps himself still, instead. Listening.

“Thought about it every day, how I deserved to come here. Must have shown up on my records. S’why they Reanimated me.”

Oh. All of it, everything falls into place. Jared’s left reeling.

“So things like today, with that woman. Angela.” Jensen’s voice sounds wet, swollen like he has to push the words out. “Her daughter died from abuse. She died from neglect and the mom, she still—” He makes a confused, depressing little noise. “She still thought she deserved to go to Heaven.”

“Jensen,” Jared says, because he has to, “It’s not your fault.” He’s never been more convinced of anything in his entire existence. “I promise you it’s not your fault.” He feels like he should do something more, but it all seems too cheesy. A comforting hand, a tissue when or if Jensen starts to cry. He has no idea what’s going to happen, wishes he didn’t feel as stuck.

“I don’t understand how she could do that.” Jensen says, and it’s like he’s lost in the memory of the trial. Replaying her speech in his mind. “How she even thinks she deserves to go.”

“She forgave herself.” It’s as simple as that, but Jared’s not going to elaborate. They’re skating on dangerous, dangerous ground, and he’s half-convinced it’s better to keep his mouth shut. Jensen’s probably heard it all before, and he’s going to hear it again. Namely from Jared.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, quirking his lips. He uses a key to tap out something meaningless on the seat, breathing too controlled to be normal. It hitches once. “Well, I just—I thought you should know.”

“Thanks.” Jared’s not sure what else to say. He knows he should keep quiet, he knows that he should, but something solidifies in his mind. Determination makes him speak up, add a little firmness to his tone. “Look at me.”

Jensen does, immediately, and Jared almost falters. He summons up the courage that he needs and turns sideways in his seat, eyes serious. “It’s not your fault.”

“Jared—” Jensen’s shaking his head, letting his gaze drop down to his own chest. “You don’t understand.”

“I do,” Jared wills him to believe. “What happened, it’s…it’s something to feel guilty about. It’s something to regret. You save her one time, but what if it wasn’t enough? Anyone on that street could have done something, too. You didn’t kill her, and it’s not your fault.” He pauses, waits until he can catch Jensen’s eye. “You’re a good person.”

Jensen looks at him like he really, really wants to believe. Jared’s not expecting miracles: he knows that even the best misty-eyed speech would probably fall short of convincing and he’s—he’s not so great with these epic chats. Everything about Heaven and Hell, everything about punishment and judgment and sins, it’s nothing he understands. It’s nothing he can hope to be convincing about, but he has to try.

He just has to be honest. So he stays where he is in the truck, and wills Jensen to listen. “I wish you could believe me.”

They stay like that, Jensen blinking at him, looking a little lost and hurt. Then he scoots, slowly moving his way over to Jared, who’s still sitting sideways. Jensen’s body settles in the space between the leg Jared’s pulled up on the seat and the one he’s left on the floor. He hunches down a little, until his shoulder presses against Jared’s heart.

Jared’s heart, of course, starts fluttering like crazy. This definitely wasn’t a part of the plan, but it would be a nice little addition. Is it right, though, with what he’s just been told? He stares at Jensen’s lips, waiting and unwilling to move.

He accepts Jensen’s light kiss, heart trip-tripping harder.

“I want to believe you,” Jensen pulls back to say, and that, if nothing else, is a pretty fucking good start.

\--

The next morning comes, calm and rather tepid.

Jared stays in his bed, watching the red light of the sun flare brighter as the day gathers strength. He thinks about the night before—the trial, the confession, the kiss—and wants to fall asleep all over again. He’s weary from it all, still worried about what it means.

It had only been a kiss. Jensen had pulled away after, let his body relax in increments against Jared’s chest until his breathing leveled-out and he dozed. Jared held him as best he could, enjoying the closeness if not the reason for it. So he held and he thought, because what the hell was he supposed to do now?

The same questions still stir in Jared’s mind. The same fears.

He thinks about Tom, the phone calls he’s been ignoring for weeks. He can’t, won’t leave. Visions of becoming some kind of Heavenly outlaw flash through his mind and he wonders where they could hide.

He thinks about the trials. He remembers Angela and the things that she’d done. It’s unlikely, but he wonders if he ever met her daughter in his Heaven.

And of course he thinks about Jensen. He thinks about what he should say, how best to change his mind. He has no experience with this kind of thing, no training. He’s terrified he’s just going to fuck Jensen up further and really, what if he already has? What if Jared’s a shitty, non-convincing sort of person that’s only going to succeed in screwing up his potential-if-currently-not boyfriend’s head? Aren’t there steps for these kinds of things, some kind of program? And he sort of feels like an evil bastard for thinking it, but what about touching? Is he still allowed to, should he? Because what if Jensen’s tossed that all aside, woke up thinking it’s a mistake, and—

“Jay!”

Legs spasming in the covers, Jared flails and falls out of bed. His nose cracks against the floor, pain zinging through his skull. “Fucking fuck,” he spits, and smacks the floor in retaliation. “Ow.”

The carpet rumbles a little as Jensen walks closer and leans down. Jared feels a hand press down between his shoulder blades, followed by a quick rub. “Fuckin’ spaz sometimes, you know that?”

“Yesh,” Jared says, and does his best to sit up.

Blinking, he realizes that Jensen looks fairly normal. Jared’s never really been in a position like this before, but to be honest, he was expecting more in the way of wet cheeks and blinding rage. There’s a part of Jensen that looks like he might want to hide, but he’s grinning softly at Jared on the floor, arms loose at his sides.

“Been calling you for ages. You think you can make it to the kitchen in one piece?” Jensen pats the side of Jared’s face, a little hard. “‘Cause I’m not feeding you in bed.”

“Mean,” Jared says simply, and gets up.

He studies Jensen as he follows him down the hall and feels guilty about it. It’s not like he wants Jensen to be a broken mess, but it’s odd not seeing hard evidence of yesterday’s events. Especially when they were rather cataclysmic. Nothing had happened once they’d gotten home: Jensen had retreated to his room, only popped out for the dinner Jared managed to pull together. No more talking was had. But maybe Jared shouldn’t expect anything at all, maybe he—

“What is going on up there?” Jensen’s suddenly behind him, pushing him forward with one hand and flicking him in the head with the other. They finally make it into the kitchen, Jensen gently shoving him towards a chair. “Need to turn off your brain.”

That actually sounds quite appealing. Jared quickly does a horrible mime of flipping off a brain-switch in the air before he sits down.

“Tried something a little different.” Jensen speaks up from the side of the kitchen, body hiding whatever it is he’s putting together. Jared sniffs at the air, trying to cheat, but he can’t quite place it. “Bet you’ll like it, though. As you should.”

“I will.” It’s the easiest promise in the world. “What is it?”

“Waffles,” Jensen says proudly, and turns around with two plates, both of them piled high with the most amazing looking breakfasty items Jared’s ever seen. Golden and dripping with fruit and some kind of syrup and is that fucking ice cream?

“Oh god,” Jared moans when Jensen sets it down in front of him. “This is immoral.”

“Right?”

A fork materializes next to Jared’s hand and that’s it—he can’t even wait for the polite moment. The first bite is like sin on his tongue, equal parts hot and cold and sweet. “Unf,” he closes his eyes to taste it better. “How did we never eat this before, again?” When he refocuses, Jensen’s smiling at him from the other side of the table.

Showing a bit more self-restraint, Jensen cuts his waffle into smaller pieces. “Never thought to,” he says, and shifts in his seat. “You mentioned it yesterday.”

The fork pauses halfway to Jared’s mouth. “I did?”

Jensen nods. “You fell asleep in the truck. On the way back,” he clarifies. “Started mumbling all kinds of shit.”

“Oh.” It’s hard not to feel a little self-conscious, learning something like that. He didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep; it was mid-afternoon. “Did I—what did I say?”

“It’s almost disturbing how much you think about food.” Jensen pauses to take a sip of his coffee, making a face. “Other than that? How awesome and wonderful of a human being I am, obviously. Downright flattering.”

Jared swallows his own bit of food, refuses to feel ashamed. “It’s true,” he says, and points at what’s left of his decimated waffle. “And this? This is Exhibit A.”

“Because only wonderful human beings make waffles,” Jensen rolls his eyes, but his smile is fairly proud. And then there it is: a tenseness creeps into his shoulders, bunching them up nearer to his neck. He plays with his food, pushing it around with his fork, and Jared loses his appetite because this is the beginning of the end. Jensen will have thought it through over the night and he’ll say—

“Thank you.”

Jared tries to remember how to breathe. “Thank you?” he says, not thinking.

“You.” Jensen’s leg jigs up and down until he makes a face, frustrated with himself, and stops. He takes a deep breath and looks up at Jared, sincere. “Thank you for last night. I may—I might not ever say it again, but I wanted to tell you. Because you deserve to hear it, and because it’s true.”

Silence looms again, not entirely awkward.

“You’re welcome,” Jared finally says, and tries to quash the need to fall across the table, pin Jensen against the floor. A huge swell of love wants to escape and he tempers it down as best he can so as not to be terrifying, but his smile is bold and bright. “You’re really welcome.”

Jensen nods, and runs a hand over the back of his neck. Then he offers up a smile of his own.

It helps. Breakfast suddenly feels like breakfast again, and Jared enjoys the rest of his waffle in between bouts of his own chatter. He talks about the kids he’d met in Heaven, his opinion of Harry Potter, the really odd dream he’d had last night. Jensen joins in (“Why am I not surprised that you dream about dragons?”) and they eat and talk until late morning, Jared’s belly nearly bursting with food.

He washes the dishes to be fair. The hot water is soothing on his hands, the swish of the cleaning brush loud but comfortable.

“Hand me a towel?” Jensen’s gesturing at the drawer to Jared’s blocking, hand already outstretched. Jared pulls his hand out of the soapy water long enough to grab an ugly red one by the tips of his fingers. “Thanks,” Jensen says, when it hands it over.

Jared feels content, like this. He tries to think tame thoughts when Jensen keeps brushing up against him because he’s pretty sure Trauma Etiquette has a no-sex clause in the fine print. He tries to angle his hips away, and hopes he’s sneaky enough for Jensen not to notice.

But, “You are the opposite of subtle, dude.”

Jared cringes. “Sorry, I just thought—”

“That you wouldn’t like to fuck me in the kitchen?”

“What? No. Absolutely not.” He’s stuttering like a little girl. It’s worse when Jensen stares at him like he is: completely guileless, a smirk slowly blooming on his face. “I mean. Not that I wouldn’t want to fuck you in the kitchen. Because I’d totally be down with fucking you in the kitchen.” What is he saying? “Or a bed. Any kind of surface, really. I’m not saying I don’t want to fuck you. Because I do. That would be nice.” Nice? “And I’m rambling, so could you stop me please? Just. Yes. Fucking sounds amazing, but I was worried about, I don’t know.” He waves his soapy hands around helplessly. “Trauma.”

He bites his tongue.

Jensen looks completely amused. “Trauma victims aren’t allowed to have sex?”

“I’m not going to speak anymore.”

“Because that’d be a shame,” Jensen continues on, moving a little closer. He uses his hands to spin Jared around, his back against the sink, and reaches down to the bulge of Jared’s cock. “I was kind of looking forward to it.”

“Oh?” Jared squeaks, and bites back a whimper.

Jensen nods seriously, moving his hand a little more purposefully. “Had a plan and everything.” His other hand teases at Jared’s hips, pulling down the fabric of his sleep pants until his fingers brush against skin.

Jared grips at the counter. Swallows. “What kind of a plan?”

Jensen makes a dismissive kind of sound. He pushes Jared’s pants down to his knees in a single movement, leaving him in his boxers. Then his hand comes back, gripping and rubbing just a little harder than before. “It was a good plan,” he says, almost mournful. “I thought I’d blow you. And you’d stand there and try to hold back, legs tense and shaking.” He studies Jared’s face when he reaches inside for his cock, tugging slow and wicked. “I think you’d make some pretty embarrassing noises.”

“Embarrassing noises,” Jared agrees, breathless. How can a hand feel so fucking amazing? “Jensen.”

Smiling, Jensen lets go of Jared’s cock long enough to pull his boxers down. They join his pants around his knees and he must look fucking foolish, but it’s pretty hard to care when Jensen leans in for a kiss. It’s unfair, the way he’s kissing—lazy and unhurried, taking advantage of all the time in the world. His lower lip plumps out when he pulls back, spit wet, and grins.

Hips already pumping shallowly in Jensen’s hand, Jared tries to think. “Was that.” He swallows again, shaking his head once to clear it. “Was that the end of the plan?”

“Nope.” It’s unjust how collected Jensen sounds. He lets go of Jared, presses his body up against him to grind, instead. “You’d come pretty fucking hard, but you’d keep your hands on me. Pull out my dick like a gentleman.”

“I would.” He really, really would.

“You’d put those big fucking hands all over me, push me to the floor.” Jensen speaks in between kisses, and Jared’s pleased to hear the deepening of his voice. Pleased to see the color rising in his cheeks. “Rim me until I lost my fucking mind, open me up with your fingers while you sucked my dick. I’d beg you to stop.” Kissing fiercer now, hands on Jared’s back, pulling down at his shoulders.

Jared’s lost. “Then I’d fuck you, just like you wanted.” His dick jerks at the thought. “Fucking hours, Jen.” He stops to laugh a crazed, breathless laugh. “Embarrassing noises for all.”

Jensen pulls back, eyes already blown. It’s the goddamn prettiest thing Jared’s ever seen. “Shame about the trauma, though,” he gets out, hips still grinding. “Sounded like a pretty good idea, in my head.”

“Fantastic idea,” Jared says, as Jensen sinks to the floor.

And it was.

\--  
Sex with Jensen is fucking fantastic. He wasn’t lying about the embarrassing noises. He does this crazy thing with his tongue and some spin-like move that Jared can’t even begin to comprehend. Somehow they’d managed to make it out of the kitchen and into Jensen’s bedroom, knocking over the dresser and tripping on errant socks.

Jared pulls Jensen up to his shoulder now, relishing in the disgusting sweat. He smiles, drunk on happiness, and leans down to steal another kiss. “That’s definitely going on my final report.”

Jensen grins up at him, temples sweaty, lips wet and swollen. He licks at them, playful. “I can’t have that. Anything I can do to change your mind?”

“Are you bribing me with sex?” Jared pretends to consider, pursing his lips and tilting his head thoughtfully. “God, I don’t know, man. I’m pretty professional.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep,” Jared nods sadly, “I’m hard to sway. We’d have to keep havin’ some fuckin amazing sex. We’re talkin’ marathon. Enough sweat to soak the sheets. Moans and groans, waking the neighbors, can’t-sit-down-for-a-week sex. The whole package.”

Jensen’s laugh is bubbling and bright as he reaches up a hand, tugs down on Jared’s neck. “Guess I’ll give it my best shot.”

\--

Jared’d forgotten how horrifically awesome watching Halloween was. Its awesomeness is merely compounded when he gets to watch it with Jensen, who throws out quotes and absentmindedly rubs his socked feet against Jared’s thigh.

“You would not survive a minute in a slasher movie.” Jensen’s been insisting this for the past hour. “You’d be the fool who goes to explore the basement alone, possibly in your underwear.”

Jared throws his head back, laughing. “No slasher could slash me. I’m too wily.”

“Wily?” Jensen pushes at him with his foot, obviously skeptical, and Jared soaks in the playfulness. “Who are you?”

“I’m the brave and cunning, yet handsome foreign exchange student that would save your ass when you were attacked in the shower.”

“Pfft. The foreign exchange kid would never make it. He’d nab you someplace public.” Jensen waves his hand in the air, trying to summon up an example. “Like the supermarket.”

“What slasher movies do you even watch? Slashers do not approve of supermarkets.”

Jensen’s smile is fairly addicting. “And you know this how?”

“Extensive research,” Jared promises, and squeaks, because his ass is vibrating. He shifts onto the wrong cheek and it’s worse, so he hops off the couch and digs the phone out, flipping it open without checking. Steve promised to find tickets to some old-school rock band, and he said he’d call when—

“Jared?” The familiar voice nearly wipes the smile off of Jared’s face. He keeps it pasted on as best he can, trying not to alarm Jensen.

He thinks fast, plugging his other ear with a finger. “Hey, can hardly hear you, man. Lemme go into the other room.” It’s a stupid thing to say, mainly because he’s taken a billion and one phone calls on the couch, but he’s desperate to keep the caller a secret. Jensen shoots him an odd look, mouths ‘Who is it?’ and Jared waves him off with a thumbs-up. Which makes no sense.

Jared strides down the hall, closing the door behind him when he gets into his room.

“Hey Tom,” he starts, and tries to temper down the panic. It just a phone call, he tells himself. They’ll talk and it will be painful, but then it will be finished. At least until the next time. “What’s up?”

“Good to hear from you, Jared.” Tom’s voice is hard, humorless. “Anyone ever tell you that it’s rude not to pick up your phone?”

Jared closes his eyes, forces himself not to stutter when he speaks. “I didn’t see that you called,” he lies.

“Can you tell me what you’re doing down there?” Tom’s voice books no bullshit.

Jared has never really been clear what he’s supposed to do for his actual job, but now is not the time to admit that to Tom. “Looking for anything suspicious,” he gets out, “I—”

“It’s been months, Jared.” And Jared doesn’t have to see Tom to know he’s leaning into the phone, pressing his ear hard against the plastic in frustration. “And you’ve given us nothing. If there’s nothing to find, then so be it. But you need to tell me.”

“It’s not like I’m not trying, Tom.” Jared clings to it, the only excuse he can find. “I’m looking, it’s just—”

“Just that there’s nothing to find?” Tom says, voice completely laced with disbelief. He huffs out a laugh, and Jared can hear a soft boom and the rattle of pens. Like Tom had slapped at his desk, frustrated. “You’ve been in Hell for nearly a year and you haven’t seen one suspicious thing?”

Jared throws his free hand up in the air, looks around at the walls of his room with panicked eyes. “What do you want me to say?” he says, words coming fast. “That they lie? Skip mass? Drink beers on Sunday morning? They’re demons. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t suspicious. I just don’t know what you wa—”

“What about your guide, then?”

Jared’s blood runs cold. “What about my guide?”

“Jesus, Jared. Why do you think we paired you with him in the first place?” Now, finally, Jared hears the expected squeak of Tom’s chair. He must be sitting back, talking to the ceiling. “We’ve suspected for millennia that there’s been something shady going on with Hell’s Death Trial lawyers. You’re living with your guy, right?”

“Right,” Jared says, completely numb. He starts up a pace around the room. “But—”

“Does he have copies of Heavenly reports?”

Jared bristles. “No.”

“Does he threaten our lawyers?”

“No.”

“He can’t always be in the house; you can’t always be with him. Have you looked through his house? Attic? Basement? Look for files, suspicious letters. He can make a fuss about it, but you have every legal right to—”

“No, Tom.” Jared has to consciously temper his voice; the walls are thin, and in no world does he want Jensen to hear what’s going on. How bad it’s really gotten. “I’m not—there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s doing his job and he’s following the goddamned rules.”

There’s a short, telling silence. Jared runs his hand over his face, holds back a groan; he must not have sounded as neutral as he thought. And Tom’s keen enough to pick up on it.

“Who got you this job, Jared?” he finally asks, voice dead.

Jared tries to backpedal. “Tom—”

“I got you this job. So don’t get pissy at me when I’m asking you if you’re actually doing it.”

“I am,” Jared pleads, and shoots a helpless look at his bedroom door. “I’m doing the best I can. I just need more time.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Coming from you?” Tom sounds like he’s trying to calm down. The angry boss persona slips away, and Jared recognizes an older tone, something from early in their friendship. “Jared, man. I don’t get it. You don’t have to—if you can’t find anything, if you really can’t find anything, then all you need to do is say the word. You’ve already lasted longer than anyone else. I can get you a train ticket back tomorrow, if I have to. So put away your pride.”

As if it’s about Jared’s pride.

Jared’s heart clenches at the idea of a ticket. For a brief, crazy second, he imagines what would happen if he told the truth. What would Tom say if Jared admitted he never wants to come home? What would he say if he knew why?

The possibility flashes behind his eyes before he squashes it down.

“Jared? You there?”

Jared starts, realizes he hasn’t spoken. “I—” He walks over to the bed, sits down on the edge. Elbow balanced on his knee, Jared’s hand supports his head. “I’m sure I can find something,” he says, desperately trying to sound honest. “Just give me more time. I’m not ready to come back.”

He closes his eyes, clings to the phone. He hopes it’s enough.

Tom’s sigh is defeated. “One day, you’re going to tell me what’s really going on.” He pauses, and Jared holds his breath. “Just—call me if you find anything, okay? And I’ll call if you don’t.”

“Okay,” Jared whispers.

“Talk to you soon,” Tom promises, and hangs up.

Jared slowly pulls the phone away from his ear, stares at it in his hand. He really is running out of time with Tom; there’s got to be something he can do.

\--

“Dude, it’s not even an issue.”

Jared begged out of a trial for a bathroom break, snuck into a stall to call Steve for advice about Tom. He’d been paranoid to call around Jensen, and this was the only place he could think of where he wouldn’t be heard.

“What do you mean it’s not an issue?” Jared can’t keep all of the hysteria out of his voice; it bounces back sharp against the tile. “He’s gonna pull me back!”

“Well yeah, man. You aren’t giving him anything.” Steve says this like it’s obvious. “It’s been months.”

“You’re agreeing with him?”

“No, I’m saying that you need to give him something.”

Jared pulls away the phone to stare at the screen, double checks that he’s talking to Steve. He puts it back up to his ear and tries not to feel frustrated. “And I’m saying I don’t have anything to give him.”

“You know? This used to worry me, but I’ve thought about it since then. It’s not a problem,” Steve says this without a measure of concern.

“Steve,” Jared says slowly, “it’s a big problem.”

“Calm down. Listen, all those Heavenly douches are the same. All they want is a little intel, enough to merit an investigation that’s never going to go anywhere, anyway.” And before Jared can ask the question, he goes on, “Notice how I said intel. Not ‘true’ intel, or ‘good’ intel. Just some fucking altered facts.”

“I should lie?”

“You suddenly opposed to lying now, or what? Yeah man, that’s what I’m saying. Make up anything you want. Say you saw an extra shady business guy in a bar. Tell him you think some office is using invisible ink. He’ll eat it up, get off your back, and start sending down investigation notices that we’ll either ignore or burn. Trust me.”

Jared’s a little stunned by the simple brilliance of it all. “This will work?”

“What did I just say, man? Trust me: I’m pretty sure you could go on lying forever and he’d fucking thank you for it. And even if someone does comes down to check, you can’t be blamed for being wrong. You’re giving him angel intel, not confirmed facts. He’ll want to keep you here forever; you’ll be our permanent celestial resident.”

Something huge lifts off of Jared’s shoulders. “I love you, Steve. I love you a whole fucking lot.”

“Don’t let Jensen hear you say that. Dude’s liable to have a fucking stroke,” Steve’s laughing, but he sobers up enough to say, “Anytime, man.”

Jared clicks the phone off with a smile. He’s the fucking luckiest bastard he knows, questionable surroundings aside.

\--

 

Once upon a time, Jared used to believe that his extended stay in Hell made him a better liar. If nothing else, he thought he’d picked up Jensen’s flare for expert avoidance, dodging any subject with ease. When he thinks about what they’ve been through, the sorts of things he’s seen, it’s a bit shameful that he imagined he’d improved. Nevertheless, he’s been through a lot. And through it all, Jared’s managed to keep his death a secret.

Until now.

They’re getting ready to leave for another trial. Jensen’s flitting about the house, stressed like he always is, and continues his search for the missing case files.

“What the fuck did I do with them,” he growls, and slaps a cushion back on the couch.

Jared’s lingering in the space between the kitchen and the living-room. He already knows what Jensen will say, but he asks anyway. “Can I help?”

“No, they’ve—” The lone plant in the living room sways as Jensen rushes by, attacking a pile of paper he’s already looked through. “They’ve gotta be here somewhere. I remember, because I saw it earlier. We’re doing a guy that died from indigestion and uncontrollable laughing.”

Jared can’t help his giggle.

Jensen stands up, narrows his eyes. “How did you die, then?”

Lying seems like a very viable option, but Jensen’s already arched his eyebrow like he knows Jared’s considering it and Jared feels trapped. So he groans, angles his eyes at Jensen’s battered chaise and scuffs at the floor with the toe of his shoe. Honestly, he’s surprised he’s made it this long.

“Iateapoisonedtaco,” he blurts, feeling all of ten years old.

“Come again?”

Jared sighs. Fervently wishing he could drop dead all over again, he bites the words out through clenched teeth, “I. Ate. A. Poisoned. Taco.”

For a moment, Jared fools himself into believing Jensen has a hearing problem. Or better yet, that he heard Jared just fine and has chosen to make the adult decision to keep his opinion on Jared’s death—humorous or otherwise—to himself. He looks normal enough, except for the way his torso is starting to quiver. Little tears dot the corner of his eyes and just as Jared’s about to ask if Jensen had somehow swallowed a tack, Jensen explodes.

He positively howls.

Jared feels what little pride he’d retained over the past months curl up and die. Jensen is nearly on the floor—doubled over, hand clutching his flat belly like it’s the only thing he knows how to do—and he’s laughing so hard Jared irritably finds himself fearing for his life, despite the ridiculousness of it all.

“S’not funny,” he says, instead.

“Oh,” Small tear tracks shine on Jensen’s face from the burning brightness outside. “Oh, but it really, really is.” He guffaws a bit more—coughing out a few more laughs that almost sound painful, then visibly attempts to stop. “Death by taco? Really? You didn’t just make that up?”

“True story,” says Jared, mumbling over his embarrassment.

Straightening up, Jensen walks over with a smile and pats Jared’s shoulder. “We can’t all die manly deaths. Way to take one for the team,” he says, and pushes past Jared to head down the hallway.

“How did you die, then?” He follows Jensen into the bedroom, leaning on the doorframe as Jensen pokes through the cluttered floor.

“Extremely horny monkeys fucked me to death during an expedition in Borneo.”

Jared blinks.

“That was a lie, dude,” says Jensen, after a beat.

“Oh,” Jared finds himself strangely disappointed because wow. “That’s too bad.”

\--

Again, with the bar. For as big as Hell seems to be (the soaring skyscrapers, the empty fields, the demonic subdivision with their wee gardens), Jared feels like he’s only seen a tiny slice. Most of the time, he feels like he days revolve around the bar and Jensen’s truck. Like a wacked-out version of Cheers.

He has a new mission, though. In between decimating Jensen’s copies of National Geographic, having fucking amazing orgasms, and reading case files, he’s been trying to figure out how Jensen died. He was young—that much is obvious—but Jared can be a curious bastard. This is information that he needs to know.

He’s tried everything. Bribing, withholding sex. Stealth tickle missions. And always, a bullshit excuse. ‘I was killed by a rabid jackrabbit.’ ‘I was trapped in a Wal-Mart.’ ‘I ate a poisoned quesadilla.’

Right.

Jared mulls over his future plans, trying to figure out which one would be the most devious. Steve’s joined them for the night, invited them out for a couple of rounds on Jared. And now, of course, things are deliciously hazy and fuzzy. Hell’s beer is goddamn addicting in the worst way.

They’ve been at it for a while, Jared snorting through Steve’s stories of Jensen on Earth. It’s like listening to some old-time radio talk program with Steve as the host. The Time With Jensen and the Monkey. The Time with Jensen and the Bucket of Water. All of the stories are completely pointless and ridiculous, which is why Jared loves them.

Jensen passes out some time in between their fifth and sixth round, head resting on the table, a little puddle of spit gathering near his lips.

Jared seizes the opportunity. “How did Jensen die?”

Steve stops checking out a passing waitress, tips his invisible hat. “How’d he what, now?”

“How’d he die?” Jared has to speak up a little over the clamor of the bar. It never matters what bar they go to: Hell’s residents are strong and loyal fans of their vices.

“Dude! Did he tell you?”

Jared feels like he’s losing his mind. “I’m asking you.”

“Shit, this stuff.” Steve stars at the half-empty pitcher on the table, pokes at it like its alive. “I thought he might have told you! I don’t have an answer, man. I’ve been trying to figure that one out for years.”

A little dash of disappointment, then. But no matter: Jared will continue along in his quest. He might try a new plan. He has this one he’s been dreaming up that involves tofu, breadcrumbs, and an inordinate amount of luck, but—

“How’d you die?”

Damn. He always forgets the dangers of bringing up the topic. For once, he’d enjoy keeping his dignity. He pauses long enough to clue Steve into the fact that he’s stumbled across something potentially great.

“Aw, c’mon Jay!” Steve’s eyes light up. “Fess up.”

Jared feels his cheeks heat, and furiously studies the amber of his beer. “I’d really rather not.”

“We’re all friends here, ain’t we? C’mon, man. How’d you bite it?”

“I…” Jared chances a look at Jensen, who’s still drooling. He certainly looks like a pass-out, so Jared licks his lips and takes a chance. “I died in a fire.”

Steve studies him over the rim of his glass. “What kind of a fire?”

“A hot one,” Jared says quickly, and reaches for the pitcher. Perhaps more alcohol will save him. “Ready for more?” he asks, and makes a grab for Steve’s glass, but the man will not be swayed: he only tugs his glass closer, narrows his eyes.

“What were you doing in a fucking fire, Jay?”

“S-saving someone.”

“Saving who?”

Jared frantically casts his eyes around the bar. In one sweep through, he sees a pile of spilled peanuts, a pirate-hooker, two drunken midgets fighting over a straw, and a chef. He lets this information coalesce in his mind for half a non-sober millisecond before opening his trap.

“A drunk chef,” he blurts.

“You died saving a drunk chef in a fire.” Steve deadpans.

“Yes. I…did that.” Jared tries his very, very best to sound sincere, but the room’s spinning a great deal and he feels more stupid gathering on the tip of his tongue. “Grease fires, you know? Very fucking bad. Fucking—fucking deadly is what they are.”

“Huh.” Steve settles back into his seat, and Jared puffs out a breath of relief. It’s fine, he tells himself: he’ll just have to get to Jensen before Steve remembers, plead his case for Steve’s continued ignorance. Surely Jensen will understand, will cooperate. There’s no reason why he wou—

“Liar.” Jensen turns his head just enough to slur out the words. “He’s a lying liar that lies. Don’t believe a word he says.”

Jared’s muscles seize up. “Jensen!”

“Ha!” Steve slams his drink on the table, laughing merrily when some of it flies into Jensen’s hair. “I fucking knew it! How’d he die, Jenny?”

“He ate a fucking p—”

Without thinking, Jared dives across the table and slaps his hand over Jensen’s mouth. Jensen continues to spill Jared’s dirty poison secret, but he only manages to huff out warm breath, heating Jared’s hand. And it’s not half-bad, feeling Jensen’s full lips move against his palm. His cock gets a little distracted by the feeling, actually—a rush of heat that Jared enjoys before he remembers where he is. Their eyes lock for just a moment, and Jared’s mind is filled with dirty, wonderful imaginings. Right before Jensen nips.

Jared yelps, cradles his hand to his chest. “Dude!”

“S’what you get.” Jensen’s lips are wet, shiny from spit, and it’s almost too much. Jared stares longer than he should, but he’s rewarded with Jensen’s loose smile. “Tryin’ to suffocate me and all.”

Jared laughs, settles back into his seat. “Can’t have you tellin’ all my secrets, Ackles. Would ruin the mystery.”

“You talk too much to be mysterious.”

Jared winks. “S’all a ruse. Throwing you off my scent.” He’s eyeing Jensen’s lips greedily now, already imagining what he wants to do when they get home.

“Guys.” Steve’s voice is surprisingly firm, most of the drunkenness tempered down. “You know I approve of your big gay love, but remember where we are.”

It’s a sobering thought. Jared reins himself in, settling back in his seat. It’s not easy, getting used to this; finally together, and they have to keep it to themselves. It’s harder than he could have imagined, trying to keep his hands to himself in public. Trying not to give anyone the hint of something suspicious.

Remembering the consequences usually keeps him in check.

Still, it’s more dangerous than usual with alcohol. Jared takes their near slip as a sign and asks for a pitcher of water, guzzling down as much of it as he can. He barely notices his embarrassing moment on the screen (Fifth grade, Jackie Nester, yellow snow), only made aware when Steve breaks out a disturbingly similar Jensen story.

The night goes on as usual.

\--

Barking out a goodbye, Jared sways in the parking lot as Steve drives away, hand out the window in a wave. He watches the broken taillight slowly disappear, drunkenly intent, and shivers when a gust of wind breaks through his jacket.

“Booze blanket wearing off?” Jensen asks.

“Guess so.” Jared tears his eyes away from the road, turning around to smile at Jensen. His cheeks are pink from a combination of cold and alcohol, and Jared envies how much warmer he must feel. “Ready to leave?”

Jared nods, and follows Jensen back to the truck. He’s pressed back into the door before he can get it, Jensen grinning sloppily. “Hey,” Jared says, and laughs.

“Hey.” Jensen’s eyes are bright from beer and whiskey. He steps even closer, his legs pressing up against Jared’s own.

Jared smiles back down. Jensen looks happy, which is why it kills him to open his mouth and say, “Remember where we are?”

Jensen stops, hand on Jared’s side. Disappointment flushes through his face, but he shakes it away and steps back. “Right,” he says. “Fucking public.”

Truth be told, Jared doesn’t really see anyone in the parking lot. They’d parked off to the side, next to a crappy old dumpster and random pile of bricks. It’s unlikely that anyone could see what was going on, and Jared’s tempted to call Jensen back. Enjoying a kiss in a relatively deserted parking lot seems harmless. But he lets him walk away.

“Can do whatever you want to me at home, though.” Jared reminds. “Just gotta get us home.” He watches Jensen move to the other side of the truck, pleased to see part of the smile back and blooming.

“Sounds like a plan,” Jensen says.

\--

“Fuck.”

Prettiest sound in the world, right there.

Jared’s knees slip in the sheets, sliding on the dampness as he curls his body closer. He’d smile but his mouth is otherwise occupied—swallowing down Jensen’s cock, wrapping his lips tight around the skin. His steadying hand on Jensen’s stomach vibrates when Jensen clenches his abs. So responsive.

He tries to copy Jensen’s tongue move, and maybe there’s a big of gagging, but he considers it a success when Jensen nearly comes off the bed.

“Fucking fuck, Jared.”

Jared pulls off, lips numb and buzzing. He leans back and sits on his ankles, grinning up at Jensen and watching him pant. His cock shines spit-wet against his stomach, flushed and pink, and his hands grip and release at the mattress.

“Lube?” Jared almost has to say it twice; his tongue feels too thick for his mouth.

Groaning, Jensen flails a hand out to his right, reaching for the nightstand. He fumbles around without looking, growing impatient when he comes up empty. “What the fuck did you do with it?” he asks, breathless.

“Me?” Jared tugs at his own cock, slightly indignant. “Why am I always the one that loses the lube? It’s your bedroom.”

“And it’s your cock,” Jensen shoots back, cheeks red and sweat-damp. He’s still breathing heavy, and Jared finds it rather admirable how pissy Jensen manages to get even when he’s turned on. “Could you—look under the bed. I think I kicked something when we came in.”

Jared’s dick is already begging for mercy, so he doesn’t bother to whine before he hops off the bed. “You need to clean up your floor,” he says, pushing aside socks and boxes and random old shoes and breath mints and finally, the goddamn lube.

He pops up, victorious. “Got it!”

“Fucking finally,” Jensen sighs, and pulls up his knees before Jared can snark back.

Jesus fuck, his body. Jared’s almost breathless with want, eyes immediately zeroing in on Jensen’s hole, so small and pink. Like always, he has to convince himself that he’ll fit; sense-memory already telling him it’s possible, they’ve done it before, and a hundred dirty images float through his head. He wants to push in, wants to go deep and watch as Jensen’s mouth can’t help but open from the tightness.

It’s too much. Jared groans from the thought of it, scrambling forward onto the bed and immediately pulling Jensen’s legs up over his shoulders. “Gonna fuck you,” he warns, and enjoys the way Jensen pants as he flicks open the lube.

“One can only hope,” Jensen gets out, eyes trained on Jared’s fingers on the bottle.

And that? That’s just too much snark for Jared’s tastes. He slicks his fingers up as fast as he can, pushing two of them inside Jensen before he can snark out something else.

“Oh god.” Jensen clenches down, body seizing, hands grabbing for any piece of Jared he can reach. “Yes.”

Jared grins, sloppy with happiness. He twists his fingers, spreading the wetness and enjoying the heat and cling of muscle. Jensen squirms, pushing his head back into the pillow when Jared does a particularly wonderful job. Another finger, more stretching, and he moves into position—making sure Jensen’s legs don’t slip from the sweat.

One hand on his dick in the beginning, Jared pushes in, Jensen clenching tight but slowly relaxing into the stretch. Jared watches as his dick slowly disappears, his own body caught between the sight and the sensation.

Fucking ridiculous, how good.

“Fuck, Jen.” Leaning down, he pins Jensen against the bed, reaching down to grip at his shoulder, other hand on the bed. In, in, ind—pushing deep. Every fucking time like the first. “Feel so good.”

Jensen shudders, mouth open like Jared knew it’d be. He reaches to grip at Jared’s arm, fingers squeezing when Jared starts to rock.

Jensen’s unholy tight—ass gripping at Jared, a soft and clinging heat. Jared pumps faster, breath catching as he leans down for Jensen’s lips. They kiss wildly, and there’s no time for finesse or skills, just the sliding of lips, breathing and panting into each other’s mouths. Jared can feel Jensen clench when the angle turns sweet, Jensen’s neck arching back, eyes squeezing shut.

“Ungh.” Jared can feel it, the way Jensen’s spiraling higher. He moves his hand from the bed to Jensen’s dick, fingers sliding through wetness. He knows Jensen’s so close.

And then he stops.

Jensen’s little cry would be laughable in any other context. He tries to fuck back, but he’s pinned, Jared’s dick keeping him in place. “What are you—c’mon,” he whines, and his eyes are crazed. “Jared, c’mon.”

Jared’s panting himself, dick throbbing. He shouldn’t be doing this, but sometimes it’s incredibly fun to be cruel. He smiles down at Jensen, taking in the sheen of his skin, the freckles on his nose. Fucking gorgeous. “I will,” he promises, rocking once. “On one condition.”

“What, Jesus fuck what?”

Jared pauses for dramatic effect. “You make me a waffle every morning for the rest of eternity.”

“What? Are you—?” Jensen’s shocked enough that he forgets to keep squirming. “Jared!”

Another slow rock of his hips. “I’m not asking for much, I don’t think. Just one little waffle.” He smiles down, knows his face is flushed.”

“You’re insane,” Jensen wails, and whimpers when Jared stops him from grabbing his own dick. “Okay, okay. Fine, waffles, fine. Just please.”

“You promise?”

“Jared!” Jensen bites out, and his body’s nearly vibrating with need. “Yes, okay? I fucking promise, now please. Fuck, I’ve gotta—”

Satisfied, Jared lets go of Jensen’s hand and slams back in, picking up a fast past that he won’t be able to keep up. Jensen’s oh, oh, oh’s scale higher until he screams, body seizing up in orgasm. Jared’s not far behind, coming hard enough to blacken the edges of the world.

Pulling out, Jared flops down on Jensen’s side. Sleepiness is already pulling at him in waves, but his smile is still bright when he feels Jensen move closer. Lip press against his arm, lazy and unhurried.

“Fucking evil,” he hears, mumbled and fond.

\--

The fan spins slowly, hushing through the quiet. There’s a welcome heaviness in the air, the sheets damp with sweat and sex.

Jared lazily decides he’d like coffee, even though it’s late. He’s fairly sure he spotted a healthy chunk of pie tucked away in the pantry, although he has serious doubt in his ability to leave the softness of the bed, or the heat of Jensen’s weight on his thigh. He sifts his hand through Jensen’s hair, considering.

“What’s Heaven like?” Jensen’s voice is soft and muffled, face half-hidden in Jared’s hip. Jared hears a mix of child-like wonder and curiosity blended with something darker.

Images come to mind. Beautiful, soft sand beaches. The blueness of a sky without clouds, never a promise of rain. He thinks of the steam rising from his favorite dishes, of never needing to reach for salt or pepper because there just wouldn’t be a point and the way the pears or limes or apples on his fruit tree nearly glowed in the pink sunrise. He closes his eyes and thinks back to the clean air, the salt of the sea, the ever-present hint of lavender on Sandy’s shirts.

He had a different job, once; he wonders if Jensen would like to know more about that. Dreaming up homes, showing them off to the newly deceased. It was nice before it was horrible. Everyone was pleasant, unfailingly kind and generous, and Jared doubts he’d ever be able to convey the degree of perfection in every last petal and leaf, in every smile.

And then, unbidden, he thinks of never-ending docks and the vastness of the ocean. How needlessly big his bed felt in the morning when he woke up. He remembers standing at a party, irked at the sound of laughter. It wasn’t right.

“What’s it like?” Jensen prods again.

Jared rubs at Jensen’s neck, cards his hand through Jensen’s hair. “Lonely,” he whispers, and it’s the truth.

\--

Jared blinks himself awake, tonguing away the nastiness in his mouth. He smacks his lips a little and frowns at the ceiling until a series of sharp, clear knocks echo out from the front door.

They’d gotten up from the bed sometime in the night, Jensen jittery about his fucking sheets. He had had enough energy to throw them in the wash before dragging Jared down to watch an early-morning movie in the living room.

They must have fallen asleep on the couch. Jensen’s mashed into the back cushions, legs intertwined with Jared’s, and as uncomfortable as it is to wake up with numb feet, Jared feels his heart go soft. The expanse of Jensen’s shirtless back puts all kinds of fun and exciting ideas in his head, but someone’s at the door.

“Jen,” Jared pats at Jensen’s arm, but he only snuffles a bit and presses harder into the cushions. The knocking doesn’t stop. “Jensen.”

“G’way.” If Jared brain wasn’t as fuzzy, he’d totally make fun of Jensen’s sleepy voice. It’s adorable, but he sounds like a little girl. A man-like little girl with a hangover.

“Mr. Padalecki? Mr. Ackles? I know you’re in there. Could you please open up?” A man’s voice – high and nasal – is audible through the door now, speaking up between firm raps. “It’s a matter of important business.”

Groaning a pitiful groan, Jared hefts himself up and off the couch, scratching at his belly. He swats at Jensen’s ass with a light hand, but gets no response. Not even a shimmy. A faint snore comes from the general area of Jensen’s face and Jared sighs, defeated.

The knocking gets louder.

“Coming!” Jared shouts, and then softer, “Jesus fuck. Hold on.”

He briefly contemplates snagging a shirt, but the ones he spies on the floor seem too small. Whoever it is that feels it necessary to disturb his sleep will just have to deal. He can see the outline of the stranger’s body when they shuffle sideways, trying to peek through the glass.

“Nosy little fucker.” Jared starts shuffling towards the door when he eye catches on his cell. The blue screen flashes frantically, and Jared grabs at it, sees: Steve calling… on the screen. He takes one look at the door and flips the phone open.

“Hey, man, not a good time. Can I call you back?”

“Jared?” Steve sounds out of breath, harried. “Where are you? Is Jensen with you?”

Jared blinks, pokes his head back into the living room long enough to see that Jensen’s stolen his pillow. “Yeah, he’s here.” When he hears an audible sigh of relief, he frowns. “I gotta go, but what’s up?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I guess I just…” Steve pauses. Jared thinks he can hear the drone of the office in the background, the murmur of voices and activity. “Have you talked to anyone today? Gotten a phone call? Anything?”

The pounding at the door rattles the hinges. Jared walks closer, steadying a potted plant with his hip. “Not yet,” he says, hand on the handle.

“Okay, well. Good. I…Jared, you guys gotta be careful. Both of you were fucking grabby last night, who knows what someone saw. I came into the office and I thought I heard talk about a r—”

“Open the fucking door, Jay.” Jared turns to see Jensen emerge from the living room, blearily blinking and shuffling past him to the kitchen. “M’makin’ coffee. Tell ‘em to go away.”

Jared smiles, that familiar happiness bubbling through his head at the sight of Jensen, all sleep-rumpled and pissy. He swats at Jensen’s ass again when he walks by, misses and laughs. “Hey Steve, I gotta go. Someone’s at the door.”

He can hear the muted sound of Steve’s roar through the phone, but snaps it shut. Right now, he has more serious concerns. Such as getting someone off of the porch so he can potentially molest Jensen in the kitchen.

Jared turns the handle to reveal a vaguely Mr. Rogers-esque man, complete with a sweater-vest, horned rimmed glasses, and a forced smile. He waves a little with a wooden clipboard, shoves out a hand that Jared numbly shakes. It’s sweaty.

“Ah!” The man beams. “There you are! Finally. And Mr. Ackles is…?” He tries to look around Jared’s chest, but Jared refuses to move. No one should be lucky enough to ogle his shirtless demon-boyfriend before noon.

“Not available,” Jared answers, trying not to be short. “Can I help you?”

A faint frown settles on the man’s forehead. “Oh,” he says, visibly deflating, and flips through a few pages with his thumb. “It says he should be here. Are you…” He looks back up at Jared, eyebrows pinched. “Are you sure he’s not here?”

“He’s not available,” Jared tries to stay polite, but he shifts his weight around impatiently. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes!” The man says, brightening up. “Yes, actually. You’re the one I need to see, but it’s just….” He twists around to look down the empty street before leaning in and lowering his voice. “According to Step One of the Proper Procedure Code, I’m supposed to have a witness. I thought I could use Mr. Ackles, but since he is, as you say, unavailable, we’ll just have to make due. Keep it between the two of us, yeah?” Satisfied, he straightens and starts thumbing at his clipboard. “I have the statement here, somewhere.”

Something cold and disquieting settles in Jared’s stomach. For the first time, he notes the polished sheen of the stranger’s shoes, the utter absence of Hell’s presence on his shoulders. His eyes catch on a nametag -- Clarence Weatherbee, Celestial Representative #30949 -- and his fingers go numb.

Oh shit.

“Here we are! Step Two.” Clarence nearly chirps with glee. He clears his throat before beginning, taking on a wooden voice as he reads from the paper. “‘Hello, Jared’,” he says, and mock handshakes with the empty air, “‘My name is Clarence, and as a representative of the Good, the Righteous, and the Heavenly Celestial, I wish you a fond good morning.”

The numbness has spread to Jared’s elbows. His stomach aches stronger, and he shakes his head, speechless. How? How the fuck did they know?

“According to recent verified reports, your relationship with one Mr. Ackles sadly places you in violation of Code 98.987 regarding proper interaction with the demonic. This illegal and immoral behavior must immediately cease. As such, I am obliged to place you under arrest.” Clarence pauses to look up, and purses his lips sadly. “What a pity.”

The world loses color. Jared is vaguely aware of Clarence prattling on, but his ears feel muffled. Stuffed. He hand goes to his chest, to the frantic beat of his heart, and he thinks he feels the presence of someone at his back, but he can’t look away.

“…terminated from your place of employment until further notice. Upon re-admittance to Heavenly Domain, you will be appointed a lawyer. Your trial will be scheduled at a time and date in the near future, not of your choosing. Do you understand?”

“I…” Jared looks past Clarence, to the street and beyond. The neighborhood is just waking up, a red glow brightening the sky. It’s beautiful in the most bizarre, unsettling way. It’s like home. “No, I don’t.”

Clarence blinks, looks down at his paper. “But I can’t move on to Step Three if you don’t understand.” More blinking. “Are you sure you don’t understand?”

Jared shakes his head, inching back away from the door. His breath is coming faster, the panic finally settling in. What the fuck is he going to do?

“Well, I.” Clarence scratches his head. “I guess I could read it again,” He says, unsure, “but then you’ll have to come with me. You’re not allowed to be here, you know. Not anymore.” He tugs on the end of his tie, nods decidedly, and starts reading again. “Step Two…”

“Jared.”

Jared recognizes Jensen’s voice at his back, but doesn’t turn around. He can’t let Jensen know. He can’t let Jensen know what this is all about because he’s going to fix this. He’s not going back to Heaven again, he’s not. Tears prick at his eyes when he thinks about his house, the perfect trees. His fucking job.

“Jared, get the fuck away from the door.” Jensen’s voice shakes with something unnamable. “Get out of the way.”

Clarence is still absorbed in his reading, clearly making an effort to go slow. Jared gulps in a rush of air and takes a step back, Jensen’s hand catching his arm and tugging him away faster. Two steps, three, and then Jensen’s rushing past him, pushing Jared out of the way, and Jared only has a second, but he spots the metal gleaming in Jensen’s hands. Knows what’s about to happen.

What the holy fuck. “Jensen!” Jared shouts, but it’s too late.

Jensen’s already raised the weight of the plant holder. Clarence looks up just in time to shriek out something unintelligible before his face is smashed in, nose bent to left, flecks of blood spattering on the side of the door jamb like some new-age art piece. He crumples to the ground, crashing face-first into Jensen’s feet. His clipboard falls into the burnt grass.

With the flick of his wrist, Jensen throws the plant holder back into the house. Jared hears the crash of something breaking, but his feet are firmly planted to the floor. He stares at Jensen, who stares back, unrepentant.

“What the hell did you do?” Jared whispers, voice shaking. “What the hell did you just do?”

Jensen doesn’t say anything, just crouches on the ground, hands around Clarence’s upper arms, and starts to pull. The man’s shoes get stuck on the step. Jared focuses on the shiny leather, the darkness of the laces, and imagines how all of this – everything he sees – will become part of the evidence for the trial he’ll inevitably face; the absolute clusterfuck of his after-life transforming into something even more absurd.

He imagines what they’ll do at the trial, what they’ll say. How he’ll be punished. He wonders if Clarence is dead, once more. But worse, what’ll happen to Jensen? Angel-murder’s got to be a bit of a crime and there’s no telling what’ll happen to him. He’ll be taken away, locked up, and Jared’ll never, he’ll never—

“Jared!” Jensen shouts, gripping at his jaw. Jared snaps to green eyes, fierce and bright. “Help me get him inside,” he says, strangely calm.

Jared does.

\--

“He’s gonna wake up, right?” He can’t help it if he sounds a little hysterical. Jared watches as Jensen shoulders the closet door shut, a bloody and very lifeless Clarence trapped inside.

“Can’t kill a dead man, Jared,” Jensen says wearily, and brings a shaking hand up to wipe at his face. It stays there, covering his eyes. “Body’ll only be here until Heaven gets him processed again, then it’ll disappear.”

Holding onto the weakest hope, Jared swallows and asks, “And when he wakes up in Heaven he…remembers everything?”

“Everything.” Jensen confirms, and Jared’s stomach swoops. Lowering his hand, Jensen looks over, eyes inhuman and determined. “We haven’t got much time.”

“What are we going to do?” Jared whispers it for no reason at all, and barely restrains himself from grabbing at the ends of his hair. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Jensen walks over to the window, peeking out at the street and checking for fuck knows what. For all Jared knows, there’s some kind of angelic, revenge-driven mafia on its way to fire-bomb Jensen’s house as they speak. Or, perhaps more likely, smile as they escort Jared off the premises. Oh, god. “But you’re gonna have to stay calm.”

Jared tuts out an incredibly embarrassing laugh at that, all tinny and high.

Jensen whips around, all business. “You got your phone?”

“I…” Jared pats his pockets, surprised to actually find it. He must have picked it up before they threw Clarence in Jared’s closet. “I do.”

“Give it to me.”

Jared hands it over and concentrates on not throwing up as Jensen punches in the numbers and starts barking orders into the phone. He’s talking to Steve, Jared guesses, but he’s too panicked to pay attention; he can feel his arms shaking, fingers and toes practically numb. Time feels stretched, the moment expanding beyond anything normal, and Jared tries not to catalogue the things around him like it’s the last time he’ll have them in his sight.

He does, anyway.

The strangest things imprint themselves in his mind: the bit of sock peeking out from a drawer, the hip-level dent on the doorway. He’d never noticed that the sun nearly turns the gray carpet yellow, or noted the stain on the ceiling. It looks a bit like a snail.

He tells himself to remember the way Jensen looks, pacing near the closet door. He might be shaking too, but it’s hard to tell: he trails his hand along the wall, occasionally stopping to slap it against the plaster. His lips look dry, the skin on his face pale, and there’s a small hole in his shirt near the collar.

Jared’s staring at his own shoes when Jensen finally flips the phone shut. He throws it on the bed and takes a moment to scrub his face with his hand. “Jared, we gotta go.”

Jared nods numbly. Going seems like a good plan. “Where?” he croaks out.

“It’s a really long shot, okay? And it won’t last forever, but it might give us time to figure out something else.” Jensen draws in a deep breath and steps closer, finally close enough to touch. “We need to get to Steve’s office.”

“Steve’s office,” Jared repeats. “Why?”

“He never told you what he did?” Jensen frowns at Jared’s head shake, but continues on. “He works in the liaison department between Hell and Earth, keeps track of which demons are where, doing what. If we can make it, there’s a chance we can slip into the next transport.”

“And go to Earth?” Jared blinks, thinking it through. “That’ll actually work?”

“Jared, it’s—probably not.” Jensen’s voice is grim, and he finally reaches out to grab at Jared’s side. His fingers catch at the fabric of Jared’s shirt, slipping. “It normally takes months of paperwork. The higher-ups have to sign off and it’s a bitch to even find them, much less make them care enough to give approval. S’why there aren’t more demons on Earth in the first place. Fucking bureaucracy.”

“So how the hell are we—”

“Because Steve’s a fucking genius.” Jensen pulls at Jared’s shirt when he says it, willing him to believe. “He says he knows another way, so we’re just going to trust him, all right? We don’t really have another option. The longer we stay here, the easier we are to find. And if they find us, we’re in the deepest, nastiest shit. They’ll have a trial.”

“They won’t.” Jared’s not sure where his sudden burst of confidence comes from, but he says it with surety. “This is going to work.”

“It is,” Jensen says back, and it sounds like he’s desperately trying not to make it a question. He looks up at Jared like he’s soaking him in, then suddenly clears his throat. Shuffles around a little. “And I know now is the time for misty goodbye speeches, but I think I’d feel more comfortable if we skipped them altogether. You already fucking know that I love you, okay? So there’s really no need for dramatics.”

He’s right: now is definitely not the time, but Jared pulls him forward roughly anyway, trapping Jensen’s lips in a kiss. It’s not completely ideal (too rough, too strained), but Jensen presses back, just as fierce. Jared refuses to believe it’s the last time.

Jensen pulls away first, eyes still closed. He reaches up blindly to pat Jared on the face, strange and fond, and then he grabs at the front of Jared’s shirt. “Now come on,” he says, voice strong again. “We’re gonna have to take the subway.”

They move out of the room and eventually, out into the day—Jared desperately trying to channel James Bond.

He hopes this works.

\--

He knows it’s his imagination, but the subway seems more dangerous than usual. So many eyes to spot them, so many bodies to avoid. No matter how hard he crouches, Jared still feels like his tallness is a spotlight shining brightly to expose them.

Every piece of dialogue and murmur sets him more on edge. He sits as Jensen stands in the subway car, both of them swaying along with the rest of the passengers. His knee frantically bounces up and down until Jensen glares and he forces himself to stop. It’s incredibly difficult—keeping the panic inside without giving it a chance to escape. He tries counting the flashing lights in the tunnel for distraction, hopes it’ll keep him sane.

It doesn’t help that his seat buddies smell absolutely rank. He can’t imagine that anyone would enjoy smelling like a particularly toxic fish tank. In the interest of not gagging, Jared tries to breathe through his mouth.

“Three more stops,” Jensen says, as the train slows down. “Three more stops and then we take the North exit, follow the right fork down to the office.”

“Three. North. Right fork.” Jared repeats back the necessities, more for his own peace of mind than to prove he was actually listening.

“That’s exactly right.” Jared wonders how crazy he looks, considering Jensen’s feeling the need to break out a calming voice. “We’re nearly there.”

Nearly there, nearly there.

And maybe it’s a bad, damning idea, but Jared lets himself imagine the possibility of success. How does it work, exactly, visiting Earth? Where do they pop up? What will the year be and will they look like themselves? Will they even look like anything at all? The train slows down further, and Jared’s busy imagining seeing his parents. Spying on them from a distance, just long enough to check up before leaving with Jensen again. On the run from Heaven and Hell.

Jesus.

The car comes to a complete stop, and then, “Motherfucking shit.”

Jared hears Jensen’s curse and when he raises his head, he immediately knows why: two hulking, unhappy figures in suits are clearly visible out on the platform. They’re enormous—easily bigger than Jared—and holy shit, they do look like members of an angel mafia.

“Oh god.”

“For fucksake, Jared, get down,” Jensen hisses, and some survival instinct takes Jared down the grimy floor of the car. He’s nose to nose with a crushed piece of gum and his heart is beating faster than ever before. “Stay down,” he hears.

He does, convinced that they’ll be caught at any second. His head is turned enough to notice that various demons have their heads cocked curiously; not much shocks them, but Jared guesses he merits the attention. He’s curled up as best he can, but he still takes up room. It’s probably an odd sight to see.

“Jared.”

Jared turns his head to the other side, smacking his face into Jensen’s shoe. He’s squatting, face pinched with worry. “Yeah?”

“We’re gonna have to split up,” he says, and he looks just as unhappy about it as Jared feels. “I don’t want to, but it’s the only way we’re gonna get into the building.”

“What!” He didn’t think it was possible, but his heart starts beating faster. “Why?”

The train starts moving again, and Jensen has to reach out to a nearby pole to steady himself. “You saw them. They’re gonna be at every stop, for sure. There’s no way we’re going to be able to get out and get by them without them noticing. All they need is a glimpse, Jared. We’d never be able to get rid of them.”

Jared hates it beyond reckoning, but Jensen’s right. His mouth is dry when he asks, “What’s your plan?”

There’s a small beat where Jensen looks like he wants to change his mind, but shakes his head once, firmly. Summoning up the courage. “I’m going to get off at the next stop, okay? Let them see me, and meet you at the office.”

“What!” Jared screeches. “You just said—”

“I said we’d never be able to shake them.” Somehow, Jensen manages the smallest, wicked smile. “I know a few shortcuts. One of us has a better chance of escaping than two, okay? This could work.” It seems like it’s only been a second, but the car’s already slowing down again, preparing for the next stop. Jensen speaks up faster. “You’re going to get off in one more stop like we talked about. You remember which way to go?”

“North. Right fork.” He can’t believe he manages to speak.

Jensen nods, encouraging. “North exit, right fork. By the time you get to the next stop, they should already be chasing after me. You should be good to go, but stay low, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like trying to outrun the angel mafia?” Jared spits, coldly.

“Like saving our asses,” Jensen amends, and gets to his feet. Jared sits up on the floor, watching and helpless as Jensen makes his way to the door. Demons push in behind him, ready to exit.

“Jensen,” Jared calls out because no. No. He’s changed his mind and this is the stupidest, most fucking idiotic plan in the history of Hell and any Heaven ever created. It’s not going to work, there’s no way it’s going to work and it’ll be death all fucking over again. “Jensen!”

It’s too late. The doors open and Jensen’s pushed out onto the platform, throwing back a smile. Not a full second passes before Jared hears the screams of shocked demons, the shouting of the angels. The sounds ring in Jared’s ears, damning.

\--

He’s shaking again by the time the car starts to slow, repeating the plan in his mind. It’s the only thing he has left. The worry is all-consuming, eating away at logic and any semblance of hope he’d managed to maintain when Jensen was still around.

Not having any other option, Jared tries to stay calm.

Dread pools in his gut as the car stops, but there are no angels to be found on the platform. He wonders if he should feel glad that Jensen’s plan worked, but he doesn’t give himself a chance to think: bringing up his shoulders, he follows a hoard of demons out of the car, immediately making his way towards the right exit.

It’s likely his imagination, but the air tastes ash-like and warm when he makes it to the surface. The forked road is easy to spot and follow, and Jared hustles down the sidewalk, feeling incredibly exposed.

Eyeing the mass of buildings ahead, it occurs to Jared that he has never been to Steve’s office before. He knows better than to expect addresses or helpful signs, and the pit of worry in his stomach grows impossibly larger. Had Jensen told him what it looked like? He can’t remember, and he’s not sure it would matter anyway: everything looks identically gray.

So it’s a fucking miracle when he hears, “…liaison office now, can I call you later?”

His head whips around, body flailing the direction of the female voice. She’s outside an office he’d already passed, and he keeps his eye on the right door until he manages to open it himself.

And then he’s inside.

It’s a lobby, like any other office building. His heart sinks until he notices a worn-down sign hanging lopsided near the elevators. He walks closer to read:

 

Liaison office of Hell and Heaven 2nd floor  
Liaison office of Hell and Earth 3rd floor  
Department of the Inhumanly Cruel 4th floor  
Management of Sin and Punishment 5th floor

 

A rush of new voices at the entrance spurs Jared away from the elevators, throwing open the door to the stairs. He climbs them without ever feeling his feet touch the surface, and stops once he sees an enormous yellow THREE painted on a door. Hand on the handle, he pauses.

What the hell is he supposed to do? He can hear the faint murmur of voices on the other side of the door, the sound of clacking keyboards and footsteps. He has no idea where to find Steve. He doesn’t know if the roomful of demons would find it slightly odd to see an unknown face strolling into their office. Should he knock? What happens when Jensen comes because he’s going to make it? What about—

“Jared!”

Jared nearly falls against the door. He recognizes that voice. “Jensen?” he calls back, and rushes to the railing, peeking down the steps. “Jensen!”

“Jared.” His name again, only softer.

“Can you hear me?” Jared calls down the steps, and with a final back look at the door, starts walking down the steps again. Relief rushes through every vein and unlocks his shoulders because Jensen.

He hears his voice again, even fainter than before. It sounds like it’s coming from the first floor, the door he used to come in. What the fuck is Jensen doing in the lobby? It’s wrong and it feels off but he can’t stop himself opening it up, heart nearly exploding in his chest because there he is.

“Jensen.” Jared rushes forward without thinking, words trip-falling out of his mouth. “You got rid of them. I can’t believe you got rid of them and are you okay? We should get out of here. Why the fuck were you yelling my name? Are you—Jensen?” He stops, hands on Jensen’s biceps because something is very, very wrong. Jensen’s eyes are shiny-wet. The smallest bit of blood dots the corner of his lip, the darkest red.

Jared’s eyes go wide. “Jensen, what the hell is going on?”

“I’m sorry,” Jensen’s voice sounds ripped and destroyed. His eyes flick at something behind Jared before they center back on his face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough.”

Jared only has time to process the whoosh of air at his back before he’s down on the ground. World already darkening, he rolls over to see a suited angel take a knee next to his head.

“Hello, Mr. Padalecki,” he says, smiling. “Time to come home.”

\--

Jared's head aches like nothing else when he wakes, like little evil sprites with hammers have been knocking away at his skull. He groans, rolling onto his back. It's cushy, whatever he's lying on, and it's a bit worrying that he has trouble seeing when he opens his eyes. Spots of black dance around, growing and re-sizing until he can finally tell that they're going away.

"What the fuck." Rubbing harder at his eyes, Jared stops trying to move, accepting the utterly shitty state of things. He tries to remember what's going on and fails.

Backtracking, then.

He remembers the bar, the bark of Steve's laugh when he told a particularly incriminating Jensen story. He remembers Jensen's laugh in the truck, the happy way it escaped and the pleased sort of feeling that settled in Jared's stomach when he watched. There was the sex, the movie, and a phone-call.

His heart stops. The fucking phone call.

Jump-started again at the thought of what happened next, Jared's mind flits back to Clarence, the funny way his nose bent when Jensen smashed it in with the plant holder. Deep and heavy dread drapes itself over his mind when he remembers the way they'd tried to run. How hopeless it was, the way Jensen clutched at Jared's side in the bedroom and the fear in his eyes.

And then nothing else.

His eyes snap open, and his vision's finally clear. He's in a simple, white bedroom—everything pristine and immaculate. There's a white piece of paper fluttering on the door.

In one swift move, Jared hauls himself out of the bed, sets his shoeless feet on the wooden, un-smudged floor. He walks over to the note and rips it off of the door, bringing it up to study.

Dearest Mr. Padalecki, it reads.

We do understand that your present circumstance may come as a shock. Unfortunately, as a law-breaker you must await a trial. For the time being, we ask that you enjoy your stay in our holding cell. An attendant is at your call, available to help you with any of your needs. Simply pick up the phone. We hope to make this process as smooth and painless as possible.

Warmest regards,  
The Courts of the Heavenly Celestial

Jared blinks at the piece of paper, reading it through again and again. Trial. He's going to fucking trial. It's pointless to look (stomach plummeting, he already knows what he'll see) but he casts his eyes around the room anyway, looking for Jensen. His breath speeds up, desperate, and he races to the phone.

Someone picks up right away. He has to be in Heaven.

"Hello, Jared!" The voice is brilliantly perky and eager. "Is there anything I can help you with? Would you be interested in a taking a shower? Did I remember the towels? I can be terribly negligent with such things, of course, but it's easily fixable. Would you like me to come? I can come."

Jesus fuck.

Jared tries to keep his voice level, but it’s a terribly difficult thing. “Where’s Jensen?”

“Who?”

“Jensen,” Jared bites out. “Where the fuck is he?”

“Language,” the voice scolds, although she still sounds dreadfully polite. “I’m sorry Jared, but I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Jared paces around the room, as far from the phone as the cord will allow. “I’m asking about Jensen Ackles, he—” Jared stops, not quite sure what to say. Panic bubbles up when he thinks too deeply, and he swallows, trying again. “I’m not sure how much you know, but I was working for Tom. Tom Welling. I—I went to Hell for my job, and I stayed with someone named Jensen. A Death Trial lawyer, and—”

“Oh!” The woman’s voice perks up again, all scolding forgotten. “Thank you for that lovely explanation. You’re speaking of the man you’re on trial with?”

“Yes,” Jared says desperately. “What do you—where is he?”

“Mmm,” the woman hums, unsure. “I don’t have anything to tell you, but I could find out. Would you like me to stop by?”

“I just want to know where he is,” Jared says, willing her to believe. He stops pacing, twists the cord of the phone with his right hand. “That’s all.”

“I’ll be there shortly,” the voice promises, and hangs up.

Lost and not a little defeated, Jared slumps down. The floor is cold and hard and more than anything, this stupid little room needs a—

Rug. The sudden cushion under Jared’s ass should feel like a blessing, but it only makes him sigh. He runs his hands through the fluffy fiber and waits.

\--

When he opens the door, the first thing he sees is a stack of fluffy white towels. He blinks, a bit bewildered when they actually start to move. An incredibly tiny woman (the woman on the phone, he thinks) pushes by, shooting him a brilliant smile, and starts heading for the bathroom.

“Towels!” she calls back, unnecessarily.

Jared follows her, feeling incredibly giant-like as he watches her hang the towels on the empty racks. She turns around before he can open his mouth, places her hands on her hips.

“You should shower.”

Jared feels a little indignant, despite himself and the situation. It’s a little off-putting. “Excuse me?”

“You’re incredibly ash-like, did you notice?” She hums unhappily, reaches up a tiny hand to wipe at Jared’s arm. It comes back clean as ever, but she frowns and holds it up like it’s a prime example. “Do you see?”

Jared really, really doesn’t. It seems just as clean as before, no matter how hard he squints. “I don’t—”

“Been there too long, I suspect.” She chides, shaking her head in an incredibly mother-like fashion. “They say you stop noticing after a while. I wouldn’t know.” She sniffs distastefully before smoothing her hands out on her white skirt.

He’d forgotten how hellish Heaven was.

Still, Jared tries to be polite, even though he knows his anxiety must bleed through. “Did you find out what I asked? About Jensen.”

“I did,” the woman chirps, looking proud. “He’s in a holding cell as well, awaiting trial.”

Until that moment, Jared wasn’t quite sure where he suspected Jensen was going to be, but he’s calmed by the knowledge. At least he’s not at the bottom of some ocean in Hell, being nibbled at by sharks. Or, you know. Something equally horrible.

“Can I see him?” he asks hopefully. “Is he here?”

“Oh!” the woman squeaks, lightly hitting her head with her hand. “I didn’t mean he was in a holding cell here, by any means. Mr. Ackles is still in Hell. He’ll join us when the trial’s ready to begin. We requested that it take place on Heavenly property, you understand. Better for everyone, that way. But mainly you.” She winks like this is a lovely joke, tapping Jared lightly on the arm. “I read your file, just now. Between you and me? There’s no cause for worry. He bewitched you, that’s all. I’m sure the judge will understand.”

Jared doesn’t even know where to begin. His mouth opens and closes, stunned.

He’s completely misunderstood: the woman pouts a little in pity, rubs small circles on his arm like she’s trying to console him. “Don’t worry, dear,” she says, “Kristen hasn’t lost a case in over 200 years. Heavenly subjects always get what they deserve.” She adds in this last bit with another wink and a little nudge.

Jared wants to rage, but he’s still stuck on a little detail.

“Kristen?” he asks, voice almost ringing with hope. “Kristen that represents Heaven in the Death Trials Kristen?”

“The very same,” the woman confirms, and claps her hands. “Is there anything else I can get for you? Are you hungry? We literally have anything you could think of. Or dream of.”

She continues on, prattling off a few of the more popular choices, but Jared’s mind is gone—thinking, dreaming up what this new development might mean for better or for worse. He doesn’t know if it’s a smart thing to believe, but he’d been fairly convinced that she’d liked Jared. That she might have even liked Jared with Jensen.

“…lobster with light seasoning, lobster with no seasoning, king crab in the shell, king crab de-shelled, oysters, caviar, and grilled cheese.” The woman stops, lowering her hands that she’d been using to count on. “Does any of that interest you?”

“Kristen,” he gets out. “I want Kristen.”

The woman blinks, casting her eyes off to the side. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t be allowed to eat Kristen,” she says politely, like that’s what Jared’s actually considering. “Human meat is somewhat out of the question. But! I must say, I’ve heard very positive things about chicken, and—”

“I want to speak with Kristen.” Jared suddenly feels very weary, energy zapped by this little thimble of a creature. “Could you get her?”

“Of course!” Nodding her head, the woman hastens to agree. She pushes past him back into the bedroom, pausing to tidy up the wrinkles he’d left on the bed. She hums as she works, perfectly content, and beams up at him as she makes her way to the front door. “I’m afraid you can’t leave this space,” she says sadly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything to eat?”

“I’m sure, I just w—”

“Not even a sandwich? No?” She stops at the look on Jared faces, reconsiders. “Something light, then. A bagel? Cream cheese? Chocolate cream cheese?”

Some things never fucking change.

\--

\--

Jared wishes he could say waiting in Heaven’s idea of jail cell is cruel and dehumanizing, but he honestly can’t complain. Boredom is not really an issue; packages seem to arrive every few minutes or so, full of either food or something interesting to pass the time. A TV magically appeared an hour ago, and it’s comforting in a really strange way, but equally infuriating.

Because all he really wants is Jensen.

The toys seem a bit patronizing, when he looks at it that way: worthless little pieces of plastic and paper to take his mind off of what really matters. Still. The distraction is nice, in the way that it keeps him sane.

A small knock breaks through the quiet. Jared stays on the floor; his little visitor keeps popping in and out, and she never really bothers to wait before coming in. The knock is a warning, not a request.

But this time the door stays shut. Jared looks up from his spot on the bed, setting the magazine (National Geographic, of course) down in his lap. When the smart knocking starts again, he slides off the bed and actually makes his way to the door. Hand on the handle, he really hopes to see a shock of blond hair.

He does.

“Jared,” Kristen says, and Jared’s already happier. The perky, ever-present happiness of the other woman is replaced with Kristen’s professional tone. Jared appreciates the gesture. “Can I come in?”

Jared nods, pulling the door open wider and stepping back, leaving a space. She flits past, the familiar briefcase in her hand. Kristen stops in the middle of the room, taking in the clutter of boxes and wrapping tape.

“I see they’ve been keeping you busy.”

“A noble attempt,” Jared says bravely, torn between getting started and wanting to ignore reality for a good long while. He’s not sure he’s going to like what he hears.

Kristen smiles a wan smile. “How are you doing?”

Huffing out a weak laugh, Jared runs his hand through his hair, pinning his bangs at the top of his head. “I didn’t want this to happen,” he says, shaking his head. “I have no idea what to expect.”

Kristen nods, understanding. She sets her briefcase on Jared’s bed, clicks open the latch so she can root inside. “Did you know about the law?”

Refusing to feel ashamed, Jared keeps his eyes trained on hers. “I did,” he says.

Kristen purses her lips in acknowledgment, takes a moment to study and flip through a bonded stack of papers. Jared imagines that it has to do with the trial, and he waits worriedly, telling himself not to bite at his nails. It’s hard to judge any kind of reaction with Kristen; she keeps her face impassively smooth as she reads, leaving Jared guessing.

He shuffles in the middle of the room, shifting his weight.

Finally, she clears her throat. “You want the truth?”

No, but Jared makes himself say, “Yeah, I do.”

Setting down the file, Kristen sighs. “I’d really like a chair,” she says, and waits expectantly. There’s a sudden clunk in the bathroom. Jared starts a bit, but Kristen seems completely unsurprised, walks into the small space only to reappear with a rather comfy-looking folding chair. She sets it down next to the window and crosses her legs, raises a hand to rest on her cheek. She looks at Jared. “You’re going to win, you know.”

Not exactly what he’d been expecting to hear. “I’m going to what?”

“You’re going to win,” Kristen says simply. With such positive news, it’s worrying that her voice seems so sad. “There’s no way you’ll be punished, not in a situation like this. You’re here for protocol. Nothing more.”

Jared blinks at her, confused. “Then what—”

“There’s no way you’ll be punished,” Kristen says, speaking slowly, “because Jensen’s going to take the fall. Jared, it wouldn’t matter if I went in there trying to blame you for the crime; the judge would never punish a celestial, especially when that celestial’s had recent contact with a demon. Is a case like this, that matters.”

“What?” Jared can’t help the rise in his voice. “Wouldn’t recent contact with a demon be a bad thing? I could—I could be corrupted or something, right? Influenced?”

“Bewitched,” Kristen corrects, nodding. “That’s what they’ll say, exactly how the trial will go. Anything you’ve said or done in violation of Heavenly law will be thrown out of court. They’ll blame Jensen.”

Jared sputters. “What about his lawyer? What the hell are they planning to do, to get him out?”

Kristen looks up at him sadly. “Jensen doesn’t have a lawyer. He didn’t request one, and it wouldn’t matter if he did. He knows how pointless they are, how this trial is going to work. He has no hope of winning.”

Despair crushes over Jared, pinning him to floor. He’s helpless in the weight of it, sickness spreading out from his stomach. He shakes his head softly and still manages to ask, “What happens then? When I win, he loses? What happens to him?”

Kristen does close her eyes, then—the first break in contact. They flutter to the side, but only for a moment. “He’ll be punished.”

The words ring in the room, hanging heavy.

“Would I—” Jared’s not brave enough to ask that question. He’ll see Jensen again. He will. “What happens when he’s punished?”

“He’d be taken to Hell’s Infernal Jail, locked up.” Kristen shrugs unhappily. “No one knows what goes on there but the prisoners and the guards themselves. But it’s—it’s not like here,” she says, unwilling to explain. “I’m sorry, Jared.”

Jared can feel the beat of his heart pumping firmly in his chest. He doesn’t know where to look, how to feel. Something mind-crushing and irrevocable waits at the end of this. There’s no going back. He manages to walk over to the bed, sitting down. And then he’s lost in thought. Train stations and tacos. Hellfire and burnt breakfast. Slasher movies and the curve of Jensen’s smile.

He’s gone enough that he jumps when Kristen puts a hand on his shoulder. When he looks up, her eyes are brilliantly blue. “Hey,” she says softly. “We have a chance.”

“I thought you just made it pretty clear that there’s no chance at all.” Jared says, numb.

“That depends,” Kristen says, and sits down next to him. Her voice is still soft, careful. “Did Jensen ever tell you how he ended up in Hell?”

Jared turns his head to look at her, already trying to see where she’s going. “Yeah, he—he did. The whole—” he waves one hand limply in the air, trying to recall the word. “What happened to Angela.”

Kristen nods encouragingly. “Exactly,” she says. “Reanimation. I was there, Jared. When he came in. I’ve never seen anybody more convinced; we hardly asked him any questions. I was set to sign for him until we looked at his file, knew that he wanted to decide for himself.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m telling you this because Jensen was the one who decided where he wanted to go. Not us, not Hell. That’s an incredibly important fact.”

“It matters that he was Reanimated?” Jared’s struggling to keep up.

“Reanimation is rare, Jared. We discourage it, always attempt to find a better solution. Not only because people don’t know what’s best for them, but because it imbues the person with a rare kind of power.”

Jared blinks. It’s silly, but, “Power as in ‘magic sparks from fingers’ power?”

Kristen offers a dry laugh. “Powerful in the sense that he still gets to decide where he should be.”

No. It’s simple enough to be mind-blowing “Are you—all he has to do is say that he wants to be in Heaven?”

“He has to mean it, Jared.” Kristin is quick to temper him down. “That’s the tricky part.”

“Mean it.”

Kristen nods. “If he truly, honestly has changed his mind about where he deserves to be. If he’s…somehow managed to forgive himself. That’s all it would take. It’s his only chance.”

“Can you—” Jared fumbles for the right words. “Can you tell him?”

“I can. And I will,” Kristen promises, and chances a look at her watch. “The trial starts soon. You’ll likely only be needed at court for a short while, Jared. They consider this entire ordeal a waste of your time. I’ll be there to represent you, and if I’m going to remind Jensen, I should leave now. Someone will come to escort you when you’re needed. Do you have any questions?” She gets up, moves to the door.

Jared’s head buzzes with questions, all of the battling for a second of his time. He swallows most of them down. “What do I say? In court.” He doesn’t know why he bothers to clarify.

Kristen’s straightening her suit, briefcase by her feet. “You should be honest, Jared. Always be honest.” Brushing off the last of the invisible lint, she smiles a small smile. “You’ll be fine.”

“Right,” Jared says, and sincerely hopes she’s telling the truth.

\--

The courtroom Jared’s led to is a little heavy-handed.

The space itself is grand, reminiscent of an aged theater. Jared’s neck aches when he tries to study the ceiling; the painted designs are impossible to make out, but they glitter and shine like a million shards of glass. Expensive glass, no doubt.

As a matter of fact, everything looks expensive from the side Jared enters on: his shoes squeak on the marble floor, and his nameless guide directs him past at least fifty opulent chairs—all of them filled with people Jared couldn’t begin to name. They call out things as he passes (“We’re here for you, Jared!” “We know that you’ll win, Jared!”) and Jared scowls at them, even if they don’t quite deserve it.

He doesn’t even notice that the room’s split in half until he gets to his table, which is strikingly similar to the ones they’d used in Hell. It’s ridiculous: a thick black line divides the courtroom in half, the sides completely different.

Jared looks over to what has to be Hell’s side, surprised by how not subtle the changes are. Had there been any supporters, they would be sitting on wooden chairs, blocky and uncomfortable. The floor is a dirty brown, swipes of the carpet worn bare from foot travel, and the walls are unadorned and lifeless. Unlike Jared’s side, Hell’s space is void of activity.

“So happy to meet you, Jared.”

Jared swivels around in his chair, turning to face a small little man with thick glasses. The stranger sticks out his hand that Jared takes numbly, confused. “Hello,” he says back, “Can I—who are you?”

“Oh!” The little man squeaks, holding his heart with a cheery smile. “I’ll be your lawyer! Name’s Murphy. You can call me Murph, of course. Whatever you’d like.”

“My…” Jared blinks, quickly stands up to scan the room. There’s not a blonde head in sight. “Where’s Kristen?” He turns back to the man, voice harder than it probably should be. “I have a lawyer. I don’t need you.”

“Mmm,” Murphy hums. “You don’t and you do, I’m afraid. Your other lawyer’s been temporarily suspended.”

“Suspended?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Could you…?” Murphy wags a little finger at Jared like he wants to tell him a secret. Warily, Jared leans down to listen as Murphy whispers. “Try to keep it hush-hush, of course, but she’d been caught attempting to aid the demon on trial. Helping a demon! Can you even imagine?”

Jared’s blood freezes in his veins. How soon had they stopped her? What had she managed to say? Did Jensen even know? “Oh god.”

“My thoughts, exactly.” Murphy raises his voice back to normal levels, flopping a previously hidden briefcase on the table. He snaps the two hinges and opens it up, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. “Now,” he says, business-like, “I don’t want you to worry about anything, you understand? Everything will be taken care of. The demon will get what he deserves, just as he should.”

“He didn’t do anything!” Jared grips at the table instead of Murphy’s neck. “He didn’t do anything wrong; he doesn’t deserve to be on trial.”

“Hush, now.” Murphy scolds him lightly, patting Jared’s knee before he jerks it away. “You don’t know what you’re saying, I’m afraid. You were operating under demonic influences and I’m sure the judge will agree. She should be here any second.”

On cue, a small door opens up in the front of the courtroom, a very Tilly-esque woman fluttering out. Her red hair matches the flames of the candles at her desk. She’s wearing a long, modest black dress with white sleeves, and she blows her nose messily before she sits down. Looking up, she waves a friendly hello.

Only Murphy waves back.

It’s all rather informal, but Jared’s supporters quiet anyway, their chatter disappearing into a soft hum. Everything must be nearly ready to begin.

Jared feels completely unprepared, panicked in the worst way. This is everything; this trial means everything and he has no idea what’s going on or what to expect. There’s no one to ask, and his hope fizzles up at the thought of what’s to come.

“Are we ready to start?” The judge calls down from her raised desk, polite and completely relaxed.

“We are,” Murphy answers.

“Excellent. I’ll have the demon brought in, then.” The judge pauses to press some type of unseen button on her desk. A faint buzz echoes in the distance. “While we’re waiting, Murphy, how are the kids?”

Jared doesn’t even hear the answer over the rage that bubbles beneath his skin. Is that how this is going to go? Is this their idea of justice? An informal gathering of friendly coworkers, banded together for however long it takes to convict an innocent man? Jared slumps in his seat at the unfairness, lost until he hears the creak of another door.

It’s Jensen, battered and bruised. He’s unchained in any visible way, but he moves like an old man, steps careful and measured. His eyes, at least, are alive: they roam around the courtroom, stopping only for the briefest second on Jared’s table. His lips might mumble something, but he sits down without speaking.

“Jensen.” Jared stands up, unconsciously moving towards the other side, and is immediately stopped by a firm hand.

“No, Jared.” Murphy’s surprisingly strong for his size, and the next tug sends Jared back down into his seat. “It’s best not to talk. Who knows what kinds of words he’d put into your head?”

Jensen flinches, at that.

“Jared?” the judge asks sweetly, “Would you like to begin?”

“Oh my!” Chuckling lightly, Murphy smacks his own forehead. “I forgot to explain. A moment, Melinda?” He turns towards the judge, who gives him the go-ahead nod, before shifting sideways in his seat. “This shouldn’t take long, Jared, but we need to question you about your bewitchment.”

“My bewitchment.”

Murphy waves away the repetition with a small hand. “Yes, yes. Your time in Hell. As I said, it shouldn’t take long. Just follow my lead, and you’ll be released in no time at all. All you need to do is sit up there,” he gestures at a new leather chair at the front of the room, “and let me do my job. Ready, Melinda!”

“Wonderful!” She sounds truly delighted.

For a moment, Jared’s unsure if he’ll actually be able to stand. His legs feel wobbly, bones liquefied and pooling in his feet. With a deep breath, he uses his hands to push off the table, moving beyond it to the chair near the judge.

It’s the most comfortable chair he’s ever sat in. Of course.

It also affords him a view of the court room and the drastic difference between the two sides. His supporters gaze on intently, some of them breaking contact to turn their heads and glare at Jensen. Jared’s not even sure they know what the case is about.

Murphy stays at his desk, calling out his first question with a steady voice.

“Jared, did you accept a position from your employer, Tom Welling, in the fifth year of your afterlife in Heaven?”

He hadn’t known it’d been five years. “Yes.”

“And where was your new place of employment?”

“Hell.” It’s strange, the way it sounds like home on his tongue.

“Your job? What were you assigned to do in Hell, Jared?”

“Honestly? I was never really clear on that.” Jared remembers all of the phone calls in a rush of memory, Tom’s needy voice on the phone. “I think I was told to report anything suspicious.”

“Ah. Confusion, you see, as a result of the bewitchment,” Murphy says, before Jared can protest. “Results in a muddy memory, I’m afraid. At his time of departure, Mr. Padalecki would have been clarified on the expectations of his position. In any case, who was assigned to be your guide?”

Jared doesn’t know what to object to first. He responds before he can think. “Jensen.”

“That man right there?” Murphy stops to point dramatically at Jensen, still alone at the table. “Mr. Ackles?”

“Yes,” Jared bites out.

“I see, and where did you stay during your time in Hell? Where did you sleep?”

Jared digs his hands into the leather. “Jensen’s house.”

Murphy hisses out a tsk. “As our records indicate, you were out of Heavenly borders for over a year, Jared. That’s quite a long time to spend in a demon’s household. Unprecedented, in fact.” Finally, he stands, stalking forward towards Jared like a man on the stage. “Arguably impossible without some kind of spell. There’s not an angel on our records that’s managed to stay longer.”

“Would you stop with the bewi—”

Murphy only speaks louder. “During your stay, Jared, did you engage in theft?”

“Yes.” It comes out stubborn and proud, and he’s pleased to see his supporters gasp. He can feel himself working up to something, words spilling out like fire. “I stole and I lied and lusted and fucked. And I ate a shit-ton too, is that important? And none of it was Jensen’s fault. I did it because I wanted to. I stayed because I wanted to and this whole trial? All of it, including you? Is a fucking joke.”

He breathes loudly in the aftermath, eyes going straight to Jensen, who’s finally looking up. Eyes wide and green, focused near Jared’s heart.

“You poor dear,” he hears, followed by another bout of nose-blowing.

Jared slumps in his seat.

Murphy’s nodding, like he’d expected this to happen. “It’s a pity. Isn’t it, Melinda? To be so powerfully corrupted by a demonic being? The boy hardly knows what he’s saying.”

“Such a shame,” Melinda agrees sadly. “Might as well take him off the chair.”

“What?” Jared whirls around, craning his neck to catch sight of Melinda. “You haven’t asked me anything at all!”

Melinda leans down over her desk, reaching a hand out like she wants to pat his head. “You’re nearly hysterical, dear. It’s best if we just move along. You’ve done an excellent job.” Then she smiles, shooing him away with her hand. “Go on, then. Thank you, Mr. Padalecki.”

Numb again, Jared stands. He pulls his arm out of reach like a child when Murphy tries to grab him, walking back to the desk alone. His words are still ringing in his ears and he wonders how badly he just fucked up.

\--

“Mr. Ackles, please take a seat.”

Jared sits on the very edge of his chair, nails digging into the wood of the table. This can’t be it. How are they already this far along? It hadn’t felt like five years in Heaven, it certainly hadn’t felt like a year in Hell, and now Jensen’s ready for his turn at trial.

Jared is so very far from prepared.

The tone of the court room has shifted completely: Melinda and Murphy’s happy demeanor has entirely disappeared, replaced with something clinical and efficient. There’s a new coldness in their eyes and Jared wonders why they’re even bothering with Jensen. Why bother to ask the questions when they’ve already made a decision? It’s punishing, thinking about what’s to come.

Murphy turns his new glare on Jensen, clears his throat. “You agreed to take Mr. Padalecki into your home?”

“I agreed to be his guide,” Jensen says, and Jared fills a thrill of pride that his voice sounds clear and strong, despite the way he looked walking into the court. It’s the resignation that scares Jared, like Jensen’s just talking to talk. “Jared was sent to Hell with no money and no clear idea of what he was supposed to be doing. I let him sleep at my house.”

“Setting aside the fact that Jared would have been properly prepared upon arrival, we have a record stating that he received a credit card. Why did he continue to stay at your house?”

A small quirk from Jensen’s lip. “Aside from my charming personality? My cooking, most likely.”

Jared’s heart breaks. He can’t believe that he wants to smile.

Murphy grumbles. “Enough. Did you or did you not coerce Mr. Padalecki into various immoral deeds, including but not limited to theft, drunkenness, and a series of public and destructive acts?

Jensen hums in his chair, sucking in a bruised lip between his teeth. “Coerced? Possibly. I like to think of it more along the lines of convinced and intrigued. He actively participated. Did a pretty good job, too.”

Jared nods, knowing it won’t help but unable to stop.

Murphy, of course, takes no notice. “Will you admit to bewitching Mr. Padalecki?”

Jensen’s eyes slide over to Jared’s own. He tries to offer up a private smile, looking at Jared as he answers. “If I did, he certainly enjoyed it.”

The crowd rumbles with a mixture of appalled murmurings and hesitant laughter. Jared watches as Melinda’s eyes narrow, hand grabbing for another tissue. She wipes at her nose, too dainty to be useful, and clears her throat.

“Let’s move it along, Murphy,” she says. “Time to wrap this up.”

No. Jared lurches forward in his seat, not knowing what to do but unable to do nothing. “You can’t be finished!” he shouts, and when Murphy turns to look at him, he lowers his voice. “He hasn’t admitted to anything,” he says hopelessly.

“No worries, Jared.” Murphy gives him a teasing poke in the side, winks. “I’m about to seal the deal.”

“What are you—?” Jared tries to grab at him, but it’s too late: Murphy’s made his way around the desk, approaching Jensen with short little steps. He turns around at the last moment, addressing Jared’s supporters, before giving a nod to Melinda.

“I think we can all agree that this man is guilty of trickery and bewitchment of Mr. Padalecki. But in order to paint the clearest picture, I suggest that we investigate Mr. Ackles’ character.” Murphy turns to look at Jensen, who still looks brave despite it all. He wilts only the smallest bit when Murphy conjures up a wicked smile. “I’d like to ask you about your time on Earth, Jensen. Let’s talk about your neighbor.”

Jensen looks stripped—whatever bravado he’d held onto before slipping away. It’s terrible to see. “We don’t need to talk about that,” he says, low. “You’ve already made up your mind.”

“Have I?” Melinda snaps, sniffling. “Don’t pretend to guess.”

Jensen only shifts in his chair, eyes now lowered to the floor. He doesn’t answer.

Like he’s feeding off of the submission, Murphy stalks forward again. Next to Jensen’s arm. “Sam was a sweet little girl, wasn’t she?”

“Shut up.” Jared can see Jensen tense, his bones locking in place.

“Shame about her father, though. Ignorant. Abusive. A drunk.” Murphy stays where he is, clearly enjoying the new pinch to Jensen’s cheeks, the way the words dig into his skin. “She loved him despite it all. So sad.”

“Shut up.” Weaker.

“It’s amazing, how long this all went on.” The lawyer leans up against the raised desk, nearly conversational with Melinda. “Years. And would you believe that Jensen lived next door? He must have heard the screaming. Must have known what was going on.”

Jensen doesn’t even respond.

“Shame he never did anything about it. Oh, he called the cops, sure. But he never took any real kind of action. Little Sam might have lived, you know. If he’d only bothered to—”

Jared can’t, anymore. He just can’t.

“Stop it!” he explodes. Veins thrumming, he stands up from his chair. He doesn’t care about the surprised gasp of the crowd behind him, or the wide eyes of Melinda. Warnings and rules of courtroom etiquette are smothered in favor of moving around the table, walking towards Murphy with clenched fists. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t, but it isn’t right. No one should be here; this trial shouldn’t even exist.

He only stops moving once Murphy is pressed back into Melinda’s desk. “J—Jared!” He stutters, hands scrabbling against the wood.

“Listen to me,” Jared says, and some distant part of his brain is shocked. He sounds fucking menacing. “This entire fucking thing is ridiculous. There was no bewitching. No cursing or spells of any fucking sort.” He takes in a deep breath, tells himself not to worry about how stupid he sounds, how he must look. “Nothing magical. I fell in love, and that has fucking nothing to do with anything that happened on Earth. Especially things that he’s innocent of. So back the fuck off.”

His chest can’t pump in enough oxygen; the edges of the room have gone hazy, even with so short of a speech.

A new hand on his shoulder pulls him back. “Let’s get you back to your room, Mr. Padalecki.” It’s one of the angel mafia-types, grip unshakeable. “The trial can continue on without you.”

Jared knows better than to argue. He’s already being pulled away, but he looks down at Jensen, still seated in the chair. “If you talked to Kristen, could you remember what she said?” The arm tugs again, and Jared keeps trying. Desperate. “When they ask, could you just remember that it’s true?”

And then he’s led away, Murphy’s excuses filling the space behind him.

\--

It’s the longest wait in Jared’s existence. Heaven doesn’t know how to offer aid, if the strange packages are any clue. Heaps of unopened Kleenex boxes pile high next to Chicken Soup for the Lover’s Soul and donuts.

He paces, thinking back across the months. He couldn’t interpret Jensen’s face in the courtroom. Did he say the right thing? Had he pushed too hard? Where was Jensen now and how long was this supposed to take?

Distraction is key.

He wanders around the room, lifting things with no intention of using them just to feel the weight in his hands. Dozens of different food items pop up; he tries them and tastes nothing on his tongue. The cookie dough might be the sole exception, but even it’s too sickly sweet to be enjoyable. Messy, too.

The buzz of the telephone sends him flying out of the bathroom, hands still wet from the sink. He nearly drops the phone; soapy water drips down onto the floor, almost instantly drying. “Hello?”

A female voice. “Jared?”

“Kristen?” Jabbing the phone between his ear and neck, Jared frantically dries his hands on his pants. “Where are—are you okay? They told me you’d been suspended.”

“They weren’t lying.” A humorless laugh, followed by a growl. “Murphy caught me talking to Jensen and nearly went postal. He’s always wanted my job, so I guess he saw his chance. Had me kicked out of court.”

“Jesus.” It’s amazing, how fresh and near his hate for Murphy is. “Where are you now?”

“In a holding cell, same as you.” Jared would be more worried, but Kristen hardly sounds upset. “I’ll be released soon. They need me too much to keep me here, and it’s a minor charge. I wanted to call while I still could.”

“Did you get to tell him?” Jared licks his lips, suddenly realizing how dry they are. His neck already aches from how tightly he’s holding the phone. “Before Murphy found you, did you tell Jensen about the rule?”

“He’s a lawyer too, Jared. He already knew,” she reminds gently. “But I reminded him, yes.”

“That’s good,” Jared says, clinging to it. “At least he—how would that have worked? In court? I got thrown out while they were questioning him.”

“I imagined as much,” Kristen says, not unkindly. Jared hears the soft rustling of fabric, like she’s settling down on a couch. “It would have been at the end. They ask for final words or pleas. He would have said it then.”

He closes his eyes when he asks. “When will we know?”

“I wish I could tell you differently, but there’s no way to know. It’s been centuries since someone’s changed their mind. Formal statements have to be read off, papers have to be signed, and none of these things would be on hand. It could take them awhile to get everything together. Hours or days,” she says, before Jared can ask. “And that’s if he changed his mind.”

Jared swallows. “And if he didn’t?”

“It’d still be a lengthy process. Closing a case like this takes time, regardless. You’ll be held until everything’s absolutely finished.”

“How will I know?”

“Your caretaker will come,” she says simply. “They’ll send someone to let you know.”

They sit in silence for a moment, Jared soaking everything in. Formal statements. Papers. The idea that Jensen might have said yes, but could have said no. The phone cord’s long enough to let him sprawl down on the floor.

“I blew up at Murphy.” He says it because it’s been on his mind.

“You did?”

“I did,” Jared says, reflecting. “I might have been a little dramatic.”

“Hmm.” Even listening to Kristen’s hum is calming. “Maybe the situation called for it.”

“Let’s hope so. Something tells me my high school drama teacher would have been disappointed.” He doesn’t know why he’s talking about these things, but it helps. It helps to lose himself in a meaningless conversation. It chases away a bit of the mind-numbing fear.

They talk until the lights go dim—a friendly reminder about the time without a window to look out of. Jared tells her about Hell, and she listens patiently as he describes the storms, the water balloon pranks, the bar with the embarrassing moments on screen.

Finally, he can hear movement across line. Someone besides Kristen asking a question. She takes a short moment to answer them, voice muffled through the phone, and she sighs when it’s clear again. “Jared? I have to go. My case is almost wrapped up, and they have a few things they want me to sign.”

Jared is somewhat terrified to be alone again, but he says, “I’ll let you know what happens. Thanks for listening. And everything.”

“Never a problem, Jared,” she says, fond. “Distract yourself as best you can, while you wait. I know it’s hard, but this won’t last forever.”

Jared nods and says his goodbyes, eventually hanging up the phone. The quiet bothers him for all of three seconds before the television bursts on automatically, helpfully flipping to Man Versus Wild.

Sighing, he eyes the packages littered around the room. Half of them are unopened, the rest open only the slightest bit. He debates staying where he is until he can literally feel his brain ramping up, imagining worst-case scenarios and remembering the way Jensen looked on trial. The longer he thinks, the worse he shakes and the number he feels.

In the interest of staying sane, Jared gets to work.

\--

He tries to knit.

Ten perfect socks, all in a row.

\--

A special comes on the television defrauding Bear Grylls. Crew members admitting they slipped him food; aerial shots of “untamed wilderness” four minutes from a highway.

“Shut up,” Jared says, to no one at all.

\--

He hadn’t realized there were so many types of cheese.

\--

Jared is no longer able to do a handstand.

The furniture helpfully moves out of the way when he debates the dangers of cartwheels.

\--

Despite everything, the oven comes as a bit of a shock. As does the cookbook flipped to a page about stir-fry.

“I get it, okay?” he says, and picks up a knife. “I’m a shitty cook.”

He chops, and realizes the room has nearly doubled in size. Things tidy themselves up when he turns his back—wrapping paper disappearing, whisked away by whatever imperative that drives Heaven to be disturbingly organized.

Cooking, in itself, is good and bad. It’s soothing to chop the zucchini, even if it’s nerve-wracking to actually turn on the stove. He throws the things in the skillet and stirs them as he should, idly wondering how much steam is too much steam. He’d be more worried about fire and health hazards, but being dead pretty much eli—

The knock on the door shoots straight through his soul.

Somehow, he has enough presence of mind to move the skillet. He doesn’t turn around until it happens again: another set of knocks, firm and impatient.

He tells himself that it’s Kristen, coming to say hello. Or that annoying little thing back with more towels. It doesn’t matter, though: there’s only one person he wants it to be.

Jared opens the door, body shaking.

“Hi,” Jensen says, sheepish.

Something zings through Jared’s arms, his hands, his feet. He takes in the sight of Jensen, worriedly notes the bruise on his cheek, the scratches of red on his arm. He may be battered but he’s whole. Whole and alive and standing in front of Jared, a small and soft smile building on the edges of his lips.

Jared grabs him, pulls him in closer than he ever has before. He doesn’t so much kiss Jensen as breathe him in, relishing the thump of his heart and the solidness of his limbs. It goes on for forever until Jared finally pulls away.

His smile is bright enough to melt the sun.

“Hi,” he says back.

\--

“I can’t believe you were cooking without me.”

Jared turns to see Jensen poking at Jared’s stir-fry attempt, fingers itching like he wants to taste. He can’t stop smiling. “I’ve always liked living on the edge,” he says. “But if it makes you feel better, I promise not to do it again.”

“It does,” Jensen says, just to be contrary. He picks up a snow pea and pops it into his mouth. Jared’s fairly pleased to see that he doesn’t grimace. “Not bad, Padalecki.”

“Had a great teacher.” Jared moves up behind him, trapping Jensen in an awkward backwards hug. Jensen soaks it for a second, leaning back, and then fondly bats his hands away. Jared laughs, and leaves him to finish stacking up all the things Heaven had thought to send. He knows he could probably dream them up again, but his momma taught him not to be wasteful. He’ll try to keep them, if he can.

“When are we leaving?” Jensen calls over.

Jared frowns, trying to remember what Melinda had said. She’d come shortly after Jensen, stiffly congratulating them both with a tissue in her fist. “I think she said whenever we want. They’ll have the train waiting, I bet. All we have to do is pack.”

“One last trip to Hell,” Jensen says, and Jared watches him roll his neck, shakes his arms like he’s trying to stay awake. “I’d take a shower, but this is all I have to change into.” He gestures at his grubby shirt, points to the reddish stain near his foot. “All I really want is a fucking clean pair of—”

Something thumps in bathroom. Jensen looks supremely confused, but goes to investigate anyway. He reemerges with a full set of clean clothes, identical to the ones he’s already wearing. “What the hell?” he says, shocked.

“Angel benefits, baby.” Jared smiles. “Welcome to the world of instant gratification.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Jensen says, but he’s admiring the bundle in his hand, picking up the fabric like it might try to bite him. “And also highly convenient.”

Jared grins at him, still amazed that this is happening. They’ll leave for Hell when they’re ready, back only for as long as it takes to grab Jensen’s things from his house. Another train will be stationed for their return trip when they finish, although they were repeatedly told they could take as long as they needed. And then it’s Heaven.

Although, “What happened?” Jared can’t stop himself from asking. He has a needy and wicked desire to know. “What happened in the court room after I’d left?”

Jensen pauses, bent over to pick up another tissue box off the floor. He straightens up and shrugs. “You shook Murphy up pretty good. He asked a few more questions, then they asked me if I had anything to say.”

Even though the event has completely passed, Jared’s heart still thumps harder at the thought. “What did you tell them?”

“That you were right.” Jensen stays where he is, but he’s looking at Jared like he’s all he can see. “No bewitchment, no curses. And that you’d helped me change my mind. About Sam.” He still sounds like he’s a little uncomfortable saying it, but his voice is clear. “Maybe I should have done more, but it wasn’t my fault she died. Not really.”

Jared only nods, tells himself to stay where he is.

“So.” Jensen shrugs, clean shirt bunching at the shoulders. “That’s how it started. Here I am. And I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.” The last part comes out more grave than the rest, more resonant. “Just knew I couldn’t say goodbye.”

Fuck Jensen protocol. Jared stands up and heads over, presses a quick kiss to Jensen’s lips. “You’d miss me,” he says, trying to lighten the moment. “You know it.”

“I do,” Jensen says, and gives the moment its due. Then he slaps Jared lightly on the chest, shoving him towards what’s left to pack. “Now let’s get out of here.”

\--

Epilogue:

\--

Together they stand in the silence of the kitchen.

The table’s gone, along with the shabby little blinds that covered the windows; the appliances are the only things that remain, the cabinet drawers open to empty space. They didn’t really need to physically come back for Jensen’s things—heavenly voo-doo and all that—but it felt right.

Jared grips at the doorframe of the kitchen, lets his fingers catch in the small grooves as he watches Jensen check the refrigerator for the fifteenth time, making sure nothing’s left behind. Two lone bags of Jensen’s clothes (and a particularly memorable packet of water balloons) sit by the front door of the house, ready to be taken away.

It’s seven kinds of surreal to stand here, knowing it will be the last time. Jared gets a little lost in the memories of breakfasts past; it’s pathetic, sure, but if he tries hard enough, he can almost taste a bit of bacon on his tongue.

Bacon.

“No cars, huh?”

Jensen’s voice is close to his ear, sneaky as ever. He’s not looking at Jared—eyes trained on the kitchen table, instead. There’s a hint of smile on his face, tempered down.

Jared smiles ruefully, knowing exactly what Jensen’s talking about. Yeah. He can’t help that his Heaven’s a little lame. “No cars,” he confirms, and shakes his head.

“And no beer?” Jensen finally looks at him, set of his mouth firm.

Hiding his smile is surprisingly difficult, but Jared keeps a straight face. “No beer.”

“Huh.” Jensen pretends to take this information in, mulling it over. “No cars and no beer. How the hell are we going to pass the time?”

He can’t help it: the jig is up, and Jared moves closer, trapping Jensen against the doorframe. Letting his eyes go dark, he pushes their hips together, hands on Jensen’s sides. He squeezes gently, lowering his voice. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

“I suppose.” Jensen pretends not to care, but he drives his hips forward, grinding against Jared in a slow wave. He brings his own hands up to Jared’s back, pulling him even closer. His eyes flick between Jared’s eyes and lips, calculating. “Still,” he gets out, “You’re asking me to give up a lot.”

“I admire your sacrifice,” Jared says, nodding slowly. He sneaks a kiss to Jensen’s forehead, pulls back. “But you have to admit: you get a lot in return.”

Some of the playfulness drops from Jensen’s face, eyes suddenly more serious. He pats Jared’s back once, offers up a private smile. “Yeah,” he says, leaning up. His lips hone in on Jared’s own, stopping just before they touch. They brush together when he speaks. “I really do.”

And then they use the table. One last time.

\--

“Are you honestly worried about the beer?” Jared asks as Jensen gulps down the last of cup. They’re in the crappy depot, which has apparently started to sell hard liquor and draft. The old, wizened man that Jared remembers from his first day in Hell serves the glasses, hands gnarled and dirty as ever.

Jensen closes his eyes like he’s trying to imprint the taste in his memory. “Give me a moment,” he says, and raises a hand. “I’m in mourning. Let me grieve in peace.”

Jared rolls his eyes, snatches the glass out of Jensen’s hand and sets it back on the table. “It’s not going to be the same, with both of us there,” he says, and he knows it’s true. “Things are gonna change.”

“A beerless, carless change,” Jensen pouts, and looks back mournfully at the glass of empty beer on the counter.

It’s so silly and equally adorable. “Okay,” Jared tries to reason, “so you might not ever have Hell’s beer again. But you’ve never had Heaven’s pie.”

Jensen does perk up at that, but he narrows his eyes. “What sort of pie?”

“Fucking awesome pie,” Jared assures, and grabs at Jensen’s hand. “Now quit stalling.”

Tugging him along, Jared pulls Jensen out to the train tracks. Their train’s already waiting—bright and gleaming in the rare sunshine of the day. Jared’s mind jumps to the near future, can’t wait until the shady, never-quite-clear sky of Hell is replaced with stunning blue. He wants to watch Jensen’s face when they step off the train in Heaven, catalogue the wonder that’s definitely going to come.

When he looks over, Jensen’s staring at the train. Like he was waiting for Jared’s attention, Jensen speaks up, “I saw you, you know. The first time you got on this.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the train’s wheels. “In that depot.”

Jared scrunches his eyebrows, tries to think back. He has a vague, hazy memory of that place, of Tilly and her odd little finger-watches. He remembers climbing the steps, meeting Jim. And yeah—a dusty old recollection of someone struggling, eventually accepting his fate and stepping on a different train. He remembers the hopelessness he’d felt.

“I remember,” he says. “I do.”

Jensen nods. “Never thought I’d get on one of these.”

It’s a simple thing to say, but it spurs Jared closer. He grabs Jensen’s hand, squeezes once before letting go. He gives the moment its due gravity, then hefts up the bag on his shoulder. It’s definitely time to leave.

“Ready to raise a little hell?” Jared can’t keep the smile off his face when he asks, losing himself in the cheesy words, the love behind them.

He can tell what Jensen wants to do. His hand clutches at his suitcase, gripping and releasing, and his mouth curls in the way it usually does before a joke. But he only licks his lips once, glances over to the gleaming train. He stares at it, assessing, before turning around. The sun sets his skin on fire, so healthy and inexplicably alive.

“You know I am,” he says, and smiles.

END

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my utterly fantastic artist, bittersweet_art, for all her hard work. I was so lucky that she chose my fic. She was helpful and supportive in absolutely every way you can think of, and she produced so much gorgeous art. I was blown away. She made a soundtrack! Icons! Wallpaper! Created Jared and Jensen! A business card! A map! And all of it's incredible. ♥ I can't thank her enough. Please go over to her journal and give her the love she deserves.
> 
> Finally, big thanks to mclachlan for going beyond the call of beta-hood. She provided so much cheerleading and support, letting me whine to her on the phone and bug her through Gmail every step of the way. She edited huge chunks of this even though she was ill, just because she's that awesome. I love you, bb. ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Reanimated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/775026) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




End file.
